


Damar and His Vices

by GulJeri



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Biting, Cock Worship, Dom/sub, F/M, Hair-pulling, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Throat Fucking, boot licking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:24:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7854289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GulJeri/pseuds/GulJeri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a group of stories where Damar is fucking people, basically. There will be dom/sub things happening and maybe some light bdsm later on. There you've been warned in case that's not your thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take Me To Church: Damar/Weyoun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyVean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVean/gifts).



I don't even care anymore. I just want to write about Damar fucking people and being fucked by people. So... whatever. Each 'chapter' will be Damar/Someone and I plan to have Damar/Kira, Damar/Garak, and Damar/Dukat. Feel free to suggest others. 

 

 

-x-

Damar is usually annoyed with Weyoun. Everything about the Vorta grates against him even after he's had a few drinks. It takes more than that to be able to tolerate him. He is smug and his voice is nothing but white noise that makes Damar want to cringe each time another syllable escapes those twisted lips. Weyoun doesn't drink, of course. The Vorta don't partake in any sort of pleasure. Their greatest pleasure is to worship the Founders and they were built specifically for it. As Weyoun drones on next to Damar, who is perched on a barstool, gripping an empty tumbler, Damar begins to imagine shutting Weyoun's mouth. Quark pours him another drink and after a few more he's thinking about how enjoyable it would be to stuff his Cardassian cock down Weyoun's throat and make him quiet like that. He begins to wonder if he could convince the Vorta to join him in some sort of sexual experimentation. Somehow the annoyance, the way Weyoun always has Damar on edge, and irritable, has filtered through the kanar and translated to sexual frustration and Damar is thinking of fucking the Vorta so hard Weyoun will forget all about the Founders and beg to worship at the church of Damar's cock. Damar snorts and downs another shot.

 

“Excuse me, that was rather rude,” Weyoun says, turning his large violet eyes on the Cardassian.

 

Damar is half slumped over the bar and strands of his slick hair have fallen out of place to frame his face in a messy black halo. He's squinting from beneath the shadows of his brow ridges and he's doing that signature lip pout.

 

“You've interrupted my conversation with your boorish snorting,” Weyoun says.

 

Damar huffs.

 

“Good,” he says, “no one wants to hear you speak anyway, Vorta.”

 

“I suppose I shouldn't be so hard on you, Damar. Cardassians are a far weaker species and fall prey to these vices which seem to cause people to act _very_ foolishly,” Weyoun says, “your drink blinds you to your own behavior.”

 

Damar tilts his head a bit and side eyes the Vorta.

 

“And your Founders blind you to any other paths or pleasures in life,” Damar says.

 

“My path and pleasure is to serve the Founders,” Weyoun says in that wheedling tone of his.

 

“How would you know if you enjoyed anything else?” Damar growls.

 

He tilts the bottle of kanar and has a look down the neck of it. Quark had gotten tired of refilling his glass and just left him the bottle—and now the bottle is empty.

 

Damar frowns.

 

“There is nothing else but the Founders,” Weyoun says.

 

Damar grimaces at the cloying sound that has entered Weyoun's voice. He really does despise the doe-eyed bastard. Damar doesn't answer him but he gets up from his barstool and has plans to leave Weyoun behind for the night though he's almost certain the creep will follow him now and in a way Damar wants that. He's still wound up and his neck ridges flushed and feel swollen against the collar of his military uniform.

 

“You should consider turning your life around, Damar, and devoting yourself to a far greater cause than... kanar...” Weyoun says derisively from behind him. Weyoun can't see him smirking that way but Damar is taking pleasure in the fact that he has baited Weyoun into tagging along just as he had hoped.

 

“You should consider butting out of my personal life,” Damar grunts, “unless you're really that curious—alcohol isn't the only vice I enjoy,” Damar says.

 

“Oh?” Weyoun practically trills from behind him, “do you mean food? I hardly see you eat—though perhaps the food on this station isn't up to Cardassian standards—though I can't imagine those standards would be too lofty.”

 

They're at the turbolift and Damar slides in and turns his back to the wall. Now he can see Weyoun who has paused outside the doors to the turbolift.

 

“Well, are you going to come in? You can't continue to lord your superiority over me while you're out there,” Damar says.

 

“But of course,” Weyoun grins at Damar slowly and gives him a small bow from the shoulders before stepping into the lift too.

 

The doors slide closed and the lift rises.

 

“I wasn't talking about food,” Damar says. He leans in a bit closer to Weyoun and the irony of the situation dawns on him; he's groused at or mildly argued with Weyoun several times do to the Vorta annoying him, but by definition of Cardassian culture he is truly flirting with Weyoun now, “I was talking about _fucking_.”

 

Damar hadn't meant to be so direct about it but that was the kanar untying his tongue a little much. Yet the look that passes over the Vorta's face when the vulgar word is spat from those pouting lips is an unexpected reward. Weyoun's large and pretty eyes widen even further. He shuffles so slightly from foot to foot and gives a small chuckle that almost seems nervous.

 

“How crass,” Weyoun says and he tilts his pointy chin up.

 

“If I didn't think it would go straight to that bloated head of yours, I might tell you that you're--” Damar begins but he stops there suddenly and he straightens up so he's no longer leaning over the smaller man and into his space.

 

“Tell me?” Weyoun asks.

Damar purses his lips as though considering.

 

“No, it wouldn't matter to you if I told you that you're pretty. The Vorta have no concept of aesthetics, do they?” Damar says. He is watching Weyoun closely and he's certain that he notices the slightest flush come over him.

 

“You're very drunk,” Weyoun says, “it's appalling.”

 

“Your voice is appalling,” Damar counters.

 

The turbolift doors slide open.

 

“I suppose I should do the... _honorable_... thing and make sure that you get to your quarters safely,” Weyoun says, and he steps out of the lift first.

 

“Honorable? You don't have ridges or the bad breath to be a Klingon,” Damar says.

 

Weyoun pauses after a few steps down the corridor.

 

“Is that a compliment as well?” the Vorta asks.

 

“I'm... not sure,” Damar says.

 

Weyoun is surprisingly silent as they continue on and a few moments later they're in Damar's quarters.

 

“I bet I could make fucking seem appealing to you,” Damar says just as Weyoun is headed for the door. The Vorta stops in his tracks.

 

“I don't see how you possibly could,” Weyoun says as he turns back to face Damar, “as I've said before; Vorta were not designed for such purposes. We have no desire for the things that seem pleasurable to other species, and--”

 

Weyoun chokes on his words which is a pleasing sound to Damar who has just taken the Vorta's pale little hand and rested it against the bulge in his trousers.

 

“What _is_ that?” Weyoun fumbles over the words and Damar smirks.

 

“We call it a prUt,” Damar says, “but sometimes I call mine cho’ch. It means 'spear',” he says proudly as he pushes his hips forward a bit.

 

“Oh...” Weyoun is staring down at the bulge and he hasn't removed his hand yet, “and that is involved in...” Weyoun lowers his voice to a whisper and dares to repeat the vulgar word that Damar sprung on him earlier in the turbolift.

 

“It is,” Damar says, “I could give you a lesson.”

 

Weyoun shakes his head.

 

“Where would you—where would it--” Weyoun is still flustered which makes Damar's neck ridges swell larger.

“Well, I've got to get this off at least before it chokes me,” Damar says. He begins to take off his upper armor. Weyoun is still cupping his bulge despite his protests. He seems fascinated by it.

 

“My goodness,” Weyoun says.

 

He's noticed Damar's neck ridges now. With the top of his uniform off and allowing them room to breathe they are quite impressive and darkly flushed with tinges of blue beginning to show up in the hollows of some of the neck scales.

 

“Now, I think you were trying to ask me... where it would go?” Damar says.

 

The faint color in Weyoun's face becomes a little more noticeable. Yes, now there's no doubt about it—the Vorta is blushing.

 

“When I say that Vorta were not made for such things I do not refer only to the _drive_ for pleasurable things but... physically... we have nothing that would allow us to explore these things—even if we were... curious...” Weyoun said, “a species that are cloned as a method of birth and have no drive for pleasure certainly have no need for reproductive organs.”

 

“I'd put it in your mouth and make you shut up,” Damar says. He takes a step forward, and another, backing Weyoun up until the Vorta's back is pressed to the wall, “and fucking can be pleasurable in many ways. It can even be... spiritual. Religious. You could be down on your knees worshiping my cho'ch, couldn't you... yesss...” Damar's eyes have gone dark and his voice has dropped low. His words trail off into a hiss and his wide chest begins to reverberate with a very low, deep, growl—a sort of purr but there's something more aggressive behind it.

 

“I worship only the Founders!” Weyoun's voice rises in shock at such a suggestion.

 

“You're curioussss Weyoun,” Damar lets more of that growl out to punctuate Weyoun's name. The Vorta's hand grips him more tightly as Damar watches Weyoun's round violet eyes he can see that the Vorta is battling with the desire to give in which is no doubt warring with the devotion he feels he must submit to no one but the Founders.

 

Damar rests his large gray hands on Weyoun's shoulders and presses firmly to ease the Vorta down onto his knees. Once Weyoun is kneeling Damar can feel the Vorta trembling beneath him. He growls again.

 

“This is... I shouldn't...” Weyoun's long black lashes flutter over his eyes and he closes them for a minute. He is taking breathes through his nose as if trying to calm himself.

 

“You look lovely down there,” Damar says, “the position suits you. Let me make you my servant tonight, Weyoun. The Founders will never know...” Damar tangles his fingers in Weyoun's soft black hair and tilts his head back.

 

The Vorta's eyes are still closed but he opens his mouth and lets out a small sound that sounds a lot like desire. It may not be sexual desire but he is slipping into some sort of state and his superior attitude has vanished. Weyoun grips Damar's strong thighs with both hands.

 

“Let me see it,” Weyoun says finally. He opens his eyes and they're very bright and the violet rings have been reduced to a mere thread of color circling his dilated pupils.

Damar pushes his trousers down and his erection springs free. It is thick and the head is flushed a deep shade of blue like those certain scales on his neck. There are rows of soft scales along either side of the shaft. His testicles are inside but there is a definite bulge in the smooth skin behind his prUt where they are swollen. Weyoun is admiring his cock and he seems to be speechless.

 

“Touch,” Damar growls.

 

He isn't quite sure it will work but he commands Weyoun to do it anyway.

 

The Vorta's small hands wrap around his shaft to test the girth of it. His fingertips glide along the silky scales along the edges. He slides them down to cup the swell.

 

“Does that... feel good?” Weyoun asks quietly and curiously.

 

“I didn't ask you to speak,” Damar snaps, “I said touch. Keep touching.”

 

Weyoun does as he is told and wraps as much of one hand as he can get around Damar's cock. His other hand caresses the testicle swell and then slides even further back to see what else is there. His fingers find a small ring between Damar's asscheeks and that seems to surprise him. Damar growls.

 

“Keep your hands to the front,” Damar says, “move that one... like this...” Damar wraps his larger hand around the one Weyoun has on his prUt and slides it down to the base, then up, then down again.

 

As Weyoun becomes more confident he grips Damar's prUt a bit tighter and when Damar growls that time there's more pleasure behind it. Weyoun seems encouraged at that and continues. He tilts his head forward to look more closely at the head and Damar is looking down at him and watching as the Vorta pleasures him and studies him. He can feel Weyoun's breath ghost against the tip of his prUt and his fantasy from earlier comes back full force. Damar grips Weyoun's chin.

 

“You're catching on quite nicccely,” Damar hisses.

 

“I... do... aim to please those who I... serve,” Weyoun says.

 

The words and the way Weyoun looks up at him, kneeling at his feet, waiting for his instruction, sends a wave pleasure tingling through Damar's body and spiraling into his sex. His chest continues to vibrate with that growly-purr. Weyoun tips his head in just a bit further.

 

He is looking up at Damar with his mouth half open just waiting for the command.

 

“Put it in your mouth,” Damar says.

 

Weyoun leans forward and his lips brush against Damar's prUt. He seems to be a bit daunted by it.

 

“Open...” Damar says, “wider... no teeth...”

 

It takes a moment to figure it out but then Damar pushes the end of his cock into Weyoun's mouth. Damar lets out a sound of pleasure as it slides against Weyoun's soft, wet, tongue, and those lips wrap around him. Weyoun grips his thighs and Damar pushes in a little farther, then slides back out.

 

“Do you like it, Vorta?” Damar asks. His voice is so low and gravelly with lust.

 

“I... don't know,” Weyoun says, “it doesn't taste like anything. Perhaps Vorta don't have any taste receptors—hmph--”

 

Damar pushes himself back into Weyoun's mouth. He thrusts shallowly a few times and Weyoun's grip on his thighs tighten. He stops.

 

“What's the matter?” Damar barks, “breathe through your nose—the Founders might not have given you taste buds, or genitals, but didn't they at least give you common sense?”

 

“I'm not sure about that, either,” Weyoun admits, “and I... don't want to... think of them just... for a moment.”

 

Damar is surprised at that admission but he enjoys it very much.

 

“I want to please you,” Weyoun says, “I will remember to breathe through my nose. I won't disappoint you. I am your servant this night.”

 

Weyoun opens his mouth wide for Damar. Damar grips Weyoun's hair and this time he pushes himself further into Weyoun's mouth. The Vorta is driving him mad as usual but in this way it is welcome. He pushes the mouth fucking further, increasing the depth of his thrusts until he's in as far as he can go and Weyoun's throat is spasming around his girth. He stops being gentle and grows increasingly rough on the Vorta but Weyoun is responding well to this. He seems to like being used and soon Weyoun is begging and crying with his fuck-hoarse voice for Damar to keep pounding his face. His lips are slimed with foamy spit and it slides thickly down chin and neck. A few times Weyoun chokes and gags but he keeps putting his mouth on Damar's cock and begging for it anyway.

 

At last Damar uses the butt of his hand to push Weyoun's head back and hold him at bay. Weyoun tries to lunge forward for Damar's prUt anyway but one hand is more than enough to hold him still.

 

“Close your mouth,” Damar says.

 

Weyoun does and his teeth give an audible click together. Damar uses his free hand to tug his prUt. Weyoun's saliva is coating it and sliding off in thick webby strands.

 

“You've been a very good ssservant to me, and my cho'ch, Weyoun. I'm going to reward you now,” Damar says.

 

The steady purr in Damar's chest hitches. He grunts a couple of times and his hips snap forward. Jets of warm reptilian cum splatter Weyoun's face until it covers it like a mask. Damar briefly recalls how followers of the old Hebitian religion will wear prayer masks as part of their ritual and he imagines that this is Weyoun's prayer mask. In fact the Vorta has folded his hands together in front of him in a gesture that speaks of submission. Damar sweeps his hand over the top of Weyoun's hair as though petting him. Weyoun leans into the gesture.

 

Damar stands back and gives a sigh of satisfaction. His prUt has already began to settle down and his neck ridges begin to calm though a pleasurable pulse still throbs through them as an after effect of the wonderful orgasm.

 

Weyoun manages to get one of his eyes open. The other is stuck and the long lashes coated with Damar's release.

 

“What does it taste like?” Damar asks.

 

Weyoun flicks his tongue against his lips experimentally.

 

“Nothing,” Weyoun says, “and yet... it is surprisingly satisfying.”

 

Damar chuckles and tosses Weyoun one of his socks to wipe his face with.

 

“What does one do... after completing this... 'fucking' ritual?” Weyoun asks as he rubs the last bit of cum off of his face. Damar notes that there's a bit in his hair though and he decides he's not going to tell him that it's there. The Vorta licks his lips once more.

 

“One gets their damn clothes on and leaves my quarters,” Damar says.

 

He expects Weyoun to give him some lip about how he's being treated after serving him so well. But Weyoun does not. Damar is sprawled naked on his bed and Weyoun simply gives him a small tilt of his head, that little bow, and begins to gather his clothing.

 

 

 


	2. Alterations- Damar/Garak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah the tailor/client trope is overdone with Garak but... oh well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vit—it means 'seed'. Since sperm/come/whatever you want to call it is sometimes referred to as 'seed' I had Damar use vit as a vulgar term in this story. Apologies if this is wrong but I didn't see a Cardassian word specifically for that. So vit seemed to work. If I should change it let me know please.

 

 

-x-

 

Damar strolls into Garak's Clothiers and tosses his spare pants onto the counter in a heap. Garak appears to have been working the hem of a dress and his eyes widen slightly at the item dumped in front of him and then he looks up at Damar.

 

“Ah, hello, Damar,” Garak says, “usually my customers are a bit more specific with their requests but I suppose I can figure this out. Don't trouble yourself to string together an intelligible sentence.”

 

Garak begins to inspect the seams for tears.

 

“I just need the waist let out—a little,” Damar says.

 

“Hmm,” Garak muses, “too much kanar?” he wags his finger, “I would be careful if I were you. The drink can destroy ones... trim figure.”

 

Garak flicks his gaze to Damar's waist. Damar growls.

 

“I didn't ask for your opinions, tailor,” he says.

 

Damar is in no way pudgy or overweight. Like most Cardassians he has a sturdy build and his frame is full of strength. But he has noticed his pants growing tighter lately in a couple of places.

 

“Maybe ah... maybe a little in the ass, too,” Damar mutters.

 

“A little in the ass...” Garak repeats, a subtle tone of amusement hinting around the edges of his voice. He looks up at Damar and his eyes glitter.

 

Damar breaks eye contact, sighs, shifts from foot to foot.

 

“I'll need to take your measurements,” Garak says. Damar gives him a pouty expression then finally nods.  
  
“Fine, do whatever you need to do—just stop that smirking.”

 

Garak gives a small incline of his head.

 

He leads Damar to a dressing room and closes the door behind them. It's spacious enough for both of them to move around without it feeling tight. There are mirrors on all three of the cubicle walls and Damar glances from one to the other catching a view of his backside in one. He purses his lips. It does look a bit rounder than he has remembered. He considers cutting back on the kanar but that thought is very brief. He relies on the drink too much but he doesn't think he could take looking at Dukat and Weyoun's smug faces every day if he wasn't constantly plied with enough to kanar to dull the edges. In fact right now he's more sober than he would like to be. His decanter of kanar was empty when he'd gone for a drink that morning and he needed to get another one from Quark's. He had decided to stop into the tailor's stop first. He hadn't expected it would take very long for him to grunt to Garak what he needed done to his pants and then leave.

 

“You'll need to remove the top for my measurements to be most accurate,” the 'tailor' says.

Damar hadn't planned on getting half-naked with the man but he takes the top of his uniform off without complaint. Damar has never really been as modest as most Cardassians tend to be. He watches the reflections in the mirrors and catches Garak openly gazing over his wide shoulders where his neck ridges flare out into shoulder ridges. The tailor's gaze moves down the curve of Damar's scaly spine and rests momentarily on his bottom. Damar swallows down the growl that is trying to rise in his throat. He isn't sure if it's a growl of annoyance, something more, or maybe a combination of both. Lately frustration and desire seem to be colliding for Damar and maybe it's the kanar but telling the difference between them seems to be growing increasingly difficult. He decides to blame Weyoun and Dukat for this since they both irritate him endlessly.

 

“Are you measuring, or gawking?” Damar says. He leans forward and rests his forearms against the mirror.

 

Garak's hands skim his waist as he uses a measuring tape. Damar hasn't seen any tailor he knows using an item like that and it seems a bit outdated.

 

“Don't you have something that can just... scan my measurements?” Damar grumbles.

 

“I do but I find the... ah—excuse me—the _hands on_ approach to be far more accurate. Measurements only go so far. Each body is shaped differently and those shapes are important to take into consideration when crafting a well-fitting--”

 

“They're just a pair of military issues pants. I'm not asking for an outfit for a bonding ceremony,” Damar says.

 

“Looking polished should not be limited to special occasions,” Garak says.

 

Damar huffs.

 

“You're really taking this tailoring business seriously,” Damar says. He sees Garak's reflection in the mirror peaking around him. The tailor flutters his lashes.

 

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're implying,” Garak says, “tailoring is my business and I do endeavor to do my best work for every customer.”

 

Damar rolls his eyes. Then he startles a bit. Garak's hands are on his ass.

 

“Mm, yes... you're right—you do need something more back here. The seam is stretched a bit tight,” Garak says.

 

“Do you harass all of your customers this way?” Damar asks.

 

“Damar, what exactly are you reading into my words?” Garak asks, “you came to me to alter your trousers and I'm working.”

 

Damar gives a small sigh. Garak is still kneeling behind him and now he runs his fingertips along the inside of Damar's thigh.

 

“You're incredibly tense, Damar,” Garak says, “your muscles are like stones. You know... I have been studying up on some interesting massage techniques--”  
  


Damar's brow ridges lift a bit in surprise.

 

“Massage techniques?” he snorts.

 

“Well, yes. I may not want to be a tailor for the rest of my days,” Garak says, “but I... could use an actual person to practice on. My mannequins don't give them proper responses.”

 

“Dear Cardassia,” Damar says, “I don't want to know about what you do with your mannequins in private.”

 

Garak chuckles.

 

Damar shifts from foot to foot. He's actually considering Garak's offer though. He rolls his broad shoulders and now that Garak's mentioned it he really can tell how tight he feels—and he can feel it most of all in his shoulders and back.

 

“Fine, if you're really that desperate to touch someone,” Damar says. He rolls his shoulders again indicating where Garak should start. The offer would be a mild one if they were both humans but for a Cardassian offer their shoulders to someone else implied a great deal more. The shoulder and neck ridges were an erogenous zone.

 

Damar watches in the mirror as Garak stands up, drapes his measuring tape around his neck, and settles his hands on Damar's shoulders.

 

Garak's hands are surprisingly soft but when he begins to knead the motions are firm. He presses his thumbs hard enough that Damar really can feel the pressure working his knotted muscles through the thick scaly hide. He lets out a groan of pleasure that surprises even him. But it really does feel wonderful. He can see Garak's reflection smirking over his shoulder. Damar scowls from beneath his brow ridges but only briefly because Garak begins to work his thumb along one of Damar's spines. Damar moans again. The sound is louder this time and it comes from a much deeper place.

 

“You're very forward, tailor,” Damar comments.

 

“I'm certain there's no need for me to explain to you the Cardassian sex drive,” Garak says.

 

Damar chuckles. The sound rumbles in his chest. Garak's hands slide lower down Damar's back and he begins to nibble at one of Damar's shoulder ridges.

 

“If you're going to bite me, then _bite_ me,” Damar grumbles, “I don't have the patience for this juvenile nibbling.”

 

“Juvenile!” Garak huffs.

 

He bites one of Damar's shoulder scales good and hard. Damar cries out and presses his palms and forehead to the mirror in front of him to steady himself.

 

“Bite my neck,” Damar growls. His eyes are closed, his chufa and forehead ridges are still pressed up against the mirror, and his breath is coming out in warm little puffs that make a patch of steam appear on the reflective surface.

 

“Are you certain about that? Your military uniform won't cover those marks,” Garak says as he trails a finger along one side of Damar's neck where the ridges swoop up beautifully from the shoulder and disappear into the hairline just behind the ear.

 

Damar turns and pins Garak against the opposite mirrored wall. The dressing room shakes with the force of it and Garak's eyes grow wide. Damar bites Garak's neck and the tailor cries out this time.

 

“I didn't ask for you to bite mine!” Garak says. But his ridges are swollen and flushed and he pushes his chest out pressing it against Damar in a bit of defiance at being suddenly pinned like that. Damar pushes back. He has Garak's hands pinned above his head.

 

Garak is studying Damar from those pale eyes and Damar is studying him as well. Damar is trying to figure out which of them is dominant, and which is submissive. Garak was the one to initiate the sexual interactions and he wasn't just obeying and doing what Damar asked him to do. There was certainly a feeling that Garak wanted to control the situation. Yet his physical gestures weren't as overtly rough and commanding as Damar's were. They stay there staring one another down for several moments before Damar's bluntness puts and end to it.

 

“I can't figure you out, tailor. What role do you take? Will you submit to me and do as I wish—or assert your dominance?”

 

A slow grin stretches Garak's lips at that question.

 

“Oh, I do enjoy either role—it depends upon who I'm playing with. I... have a feeling this is true for you as well,” Garak says.

 

Damar opens his mouth to say something but Garak takes it another step further.

 

“Perhaps with certain people—Dukat for example--”

 

“It is none of your business what Dukat and I—just--” Damar growls, “you're infuriating!”

 

But Garak is also right about Damar's preferences. Damar pouts and squints at Garak from beneath his ridges. Dominance and submission are important aspects to Cardassian sexuality and the matter was tricky to navigate when the lines weren't very clear.

 

“You would have to make this difficult, wouldn't you?” Damar says. He's annoyed and pushes his hips forward against Garak, “this should be a quick fuck, not a stalemate!”

 

Garak pushes his hips forward too.

 

“But it's more fun when you have partner who keeps you on your toes,” Garak says.

 

“You're _not_ my _partner_ , tailor,” Damar says. He lets go of Garak's wrists and backs away. He grabs his uniform shirt and armor.

 

“What are you doing?” Garak asks as he rubs gently at one of his bruised wrists.

 

“I'm leaving. I'm not playing games with you,” Damar is still growling. He's agitated and aroused but the agitation is currently winning out over arousal. He thinks he can forget about his aching prUt if he just goes to Quark's and downs enough to kanar to make the ground tilt. He can fake normalcy and function properly under the haze of a shocking amount of alcohol. He's spent awhile living this way and has decided that being sober just doesn't suit him.

 

“Ah, wait!” Garak says. He inserts himself between Damar's arms and presses himself against Damar's chest so that the other man can't possibly put his shirt on, “we're both very... ah...”

 

“Aroused,” Damar finishes.

 

“Let's not part ways with unfinished business. I can be amenable to your requests,” Garak says. He even gives Damar a small little bow of his head. It's not exactly that 'polite tailor' mannerism he does. It seems to be a little bit more.

 

Damar purses his lips again and Garak waits for his response.

 

“I want you to bite me,” Damar finally says. He grips one side of Garak's neck, “don't play nice with me. I'm not a fragile human. But... I'm going to fuck you.”

 

Garak's eyes are hooded and he glances briefly to the hand that's squeezing his neck ridge. He pushes Damar back forcefully against the opposite mirror and bites his neck. Damar grabs one of Garak's asscheeks in each hand and squeezes roughly. Garak makes a sound of pleasure against Damar's skin and it sends a tingling sensation along Damar's flushed ridges. Garak bites him again, and again, leaving dark bruises that will be impossible for Damar to hide with his uniform. Their both purring and groaning with pleasure and grinding their bulges together. Damar's hips push forward, Garak's push back, Damar's snap forward again. Their still dancing for dominance in a more subtle way. It seems impossible to abandon the hierarchy but they're evenly matched.

 

Damar grabs Garak's chin roughly and presses his lips to Garak's in a painful kiss. Garak bites Damar's lower lip and Damar hisses. Their teeth and tongues clash. Damar fumbles with Garak's tunic but he can't quite figure out how it pieces together and it seems that neither of them want to take the time to dismantle it just then. Garak shoves his trousers down and steps out of them quickly and kicks them aside. Damar does the same. They grip each others hips and asses and press their prUt's together rubbing and grinding. Their growing sticky together precum. Damar pins Garak to one of the mirrored walls again and lifts him up in his strong arms. Garak is certainly not dainty—it takes all of Damar's strength to hold him this way. His arms are quivering but they both seem very aroused by this. Garak's legs are wrapped around Damar's waist, his strong thighs clenching. Damar is trying to work his prUt in between Garak's asscheeks. The tailor's mouth is slighty open as he purrs and rumbles with desire and his hair has fallen down around his face.

 

“Open for my cho'ch, tailor,” Damar purrs. The sound of them purring together is very loud in the small space but the rise and fall of the purring sounds from each of them come together like teeth on a zipper.

 

Garak's arms are wrapped around Damar's neck but he seems to realize he doesn't need to hold on. Damar is holding him and his pinned between the man and the wall. So Garak slides his arms down to his sides and fits his fingers between his asscheeks. His eyes close and Damar watches the pleasure that shadows Garak's face as the tailor fingers himself open.

 

“How many fingers do you have in there?” Damar asks.

 

“Four,” Garak replies, “two from each hand—I'm sssstretching open for you, Damar,” Garak replies. Damar shivers in response. The tailor is bathed in pleasure and Damar is enjoying this very much.

 

“More,” Damar says, “make it six.”

 

There's a hitch in Garak's purring rhythm and he grimaces just slightly.

 

“Are they in?” Damar asks.

 

“Yessss,” Garak hisses.

 

“You think that feels good? Just wait until my cho'ch is inside of you,” Damar growls, “I want you to be open for me. I want to fit right into you—eight.”

 

Garak makes a rumbling sound and wiggles a bit. Damar moves his hips and the head of his prUt brushes Garak's fingers as he tries to find the entrance.

 

“Don't take them out,” Damar says. He moves and pushes until he finds the right space and his prUt slides into Garak's hole between his fingers. Garak cries out and arches up with pleasure.

 

“Oh—oh—yesss!” the words come out as little hitches in Garak's purring.

 

“You would take two cho'ch's in there if you could get them, wouldn't you?” Damar jeers. He's purring just as loudly as Garak. The tailor's fingers slide out allowing Damar to get all of himself in deep. Garak hums in reply to his question which is neither confirming nor denying if he would indeed like two big Cardassian prUts inside of him.

 

Damar fucks Garak against the mirror. Their noisy and rough. Their skin slaps together as Damar fucks him and Garak bites at Damar's ridges. Garak's nails dig into the Damar's back scales and Garak keeps telling him to fuck him harder, harder, and _harder._

 

Damar roars when he comes and Garak cries out too. The tailor sprays Damar's chest and chin with his release. Damar's blooms warm and deep inside of Garak who sags against him.

 

“You have a very good bottom, tailor,” Damar says. He sits lowers Garak from his aching arms and the tailor gets his trembling legs beneath him. Damar gives one of Garak's asscheeks a gentle squeeze.

 

“And you have a... sufficient... prUt, Damar,” Garak says.

 

“Sufficient!” Damar huffs, “it was sufficient enough to make you scream!”

 

Damar swipes the back of his hand at his chin where Garak's come is dripping from him. Garak laughs.

 

“I wouldn't say that I _screamed_ but... if would like to try to make me scream... some other time... I might be amenable to another... _fitting_ ,” Garak says.

“Hmph,” Damar grabs the front of Garak's tunic and uses it to wipe the rest of Garak's slime off of his chest.

 

“That was my favorite suit!” Garak's eyes are wide. He's very offended and he looks down at his soiled garment.

 

“It's ugly. It looks like a damn watermelon,” Damar says as he gathers his clothing.

 

“A... what?” Garak tilts his head. He bends very carefully to pick up his trousers and lets out a low hiss. Damar is pleased to see that his 'sufficient' prUt has left the tailor's bottom tender.

 

“A watermelon. It's some sort of human fruit. Quark had found a replicator code for it yesterday and was trying to sell it. It looks like that outfit of yours... except for the _vit_ staining it,” Damar has his shirt back on is shimmying into his trousers.

 

“It'll never come out,” Garak says, “it's just ruined.”

 

“Let me know when my pants are finished,” Damar says. He pats Garak on the chest and gives him a leer.

 

“I certainly will. Of course you'll have to try them on to make sure that the alterations meet your approval,” Garak says.

 

“I'll look forward to it,” Damar replies.

 

He leaves Garak to clean up his mess and he heads to Quark for his bottle of kanar.

 


	3. You're Disgusting: Kira/Damar

Damar is very bored and replaying a couple of encounters from the past week in his head. First Weyoun, and then the tailor. He has had another romp with Garak but Weyoun has closed down after their first encounter. Damar thinks that is a shame because the Vorta was wonderful on his knees. He's sitting at Quark's and watching an interaction between Kira and Odo. They're too far away for his poorer Cardassian hearing to decipher their words so he just watches. The interaction is brief and then Kira is coming towards the bar. She seems annoyed but asks Quark only for a glass of water and she doesn't even seem to notice Damar at first but after a moment she turns and glares at him. He's leaning to the side a bit on his stool and leering at her—not as intensely as Dukat tends to—but the look he's giving her is quite obvious. Kira sneers at him.

 

“Cardassians,” she says with disgust.

 

“You're an attractive woman--for a Bajoran. Men are bound to look at you from time to time. Many women would find it flattering,” Damar says. He lifts his glass of kanar and sips.

 

“I'm not many women, Damar,” she leans into his space a bit and her lips are still curled in disgust, “and coming from you I find it sickening.”

  
Damar chuckles.

 

“If you and Dukat don't leave me alone you'll find yourselves floating outside an airlock one day,” she says.

 

Damar laughs at that which seems to catch Kira a bit off guard.

 

“You might be surprised to know that all Cardassian men are not like Dukat,” Damar says.

 

“Arrogant, posturing, slimy--” Kira begins to let loose with a list of unflattering adjectives.

 

“Here, Major, have a drink on me,” Quark says, sliding a glass of something to Kira, “for having to put up with him.”

 

“What? A Ferengi giving out drinks for free?” Kira gapes at Quark.

 

“Shh—you'll ruin my reputation,” Quark says, “just—make sure Damar doesn't get too loud and that'll be payment for this time. But next time? Latinum. Lots of it.”

 

“Gee Quark, thanks, but I don't like the idea of babysitting grown men. I'm not sure I like the idea of a drink you've offered me for free, either,” Kira says, “this isn't Odo, is it?”

 

“If you're not going to drink it, then I will,” Damar says. He snatches the glass out of Kira's hand and downs whatever is in it.

 

“That'll be three slips of latinum,” Quark says to Damar. Damar snarls at him a bit and Quark backs away.

 

“That was really rude,” Kira says.

 

“It wasn't rude. You didn't want the drink. I did. Now it's gone to good use,” Damar pats his uniform top at the belly.

 

“Good use—sure, go ahead and pickle yourself. That's one less Cardassian strutting around the Promenade like he owns it,” Kira says.

 

“Oh, Major, you'd just love to put one of us in our place, wouldn't you?”

 

“I think I just did!” Kira crows laughter at that and gets up from her stool, “good night, Damar.”

 

Damar tips back what's left in his bottle, leaves some latinum for the Ferengi, then follows Kira.

 

“You've got some nerve talking like that to a Cardassian officer,” Damar calls to her.

 

“Oh please,” Kira says without even stopping or turning around, “you're only a Glinn, Damar, and even so... why would I have any respect for anyone wearing one of those ugly gray uniforms?”

 

Damar follows Kira to her quarters and when they get there she grabs his wrist, spins him, and pins him to the wall. He's taller and broader than her by quite a bit she still has him pinned there with his back to her and his face smashed up against the surface.

 

“What are you doing, Damar? I think you're too drunk—and I also think that you shouldn't be following me to my doorstep. What do you want? No—never mind. It doesn't matter what you want. You're not going to get it.”

 

“I never said I wanted anything,” Damar says. He wiggles a little and Kira's lightening reflexes come into play immediately. She kicks one leg out from under him and Damar falls to one knee with a grunt. Kira pushed the back of his head which causes his nose and chufa to smash up against the wall and she holds him there like that. He could get up now if he wanted to risk her busting his knee cap or his groin but Damar doesn't move.

 

“Cardassians _always_ want something. But you know what? It looks like I'm the one having the treat tonight. It isn't ever day I get to see a Cardassian officer on his knees,” Kira sneers.

 

“I bet you'd love it even more if you could see my face right now,” Damar mutters to the wall.

 

There's a long pause and then Kira lets go of his head.

 

“Turn around then. Let me see it,” Kira says it flippantly, almost as though she's joking, but Damar does it.

 

Kira seems shocked to see him sneering up at her through curtains of black hair that obscure most of his scaly face. Without thinking Kira reaches out and brushes some of the hair out of the way. Her fingers trail gently along his ear ridge and along the jaw. For a moment she seems to be admiring him without even realizing—and then Damar snaps his teeth at her fingers. Kira's palm sings out loud and hot against his cheek. It burns where it came into contact with his skin and then it tingles and the tingle trickles all the way down.

 

Damar still hasn't gotten up though. His face is mostly hidden again by his hair which was further messed by that slap that could have been heard on the other side of the station. He is growling lowly and Kira is still standing in front of him, shifting, unsure.

 

“Get up, Damar,” Kira finally says in a voice that is more timid than usual.

 

Damar gets up to his feet and gives his head a shake to get some of the hair out of his face. Kira still seems to be unsure what to do and possibly debating. Her cheeks are a bit pinkish. Suddenly she just snaps at him.

 

“If you ever try to bite me again, I will kick all of those shiny white teeth right out of your scaly little head--” she's saying it in this overly-sweet voice that she sometimes uses when she's angry.

 

“You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?” Damar says. He puffs his chest up and takes a step towards her. Surprised, Kira does step back, but then stops when he takes another step and refuses to budge. Their almost flush against one another and Damar is looking down at her as though he despises her, and she's looking up at him with just the same expression.

 

“You're unbelievable, Damar! Are you _challenging me_?” Kira's voice pitches up as though she can't believe it.

 

“You won't do anything about it,” Damar says.

 

“Is that right?” she begins to go but Damar's hand catches her wrist and squeezes it tightly. Her eyes grow dark and dangerous. In one motion she has turned the tables again, twisted his arm behind him, and she's in charge again.

 

She pushes him towards her door, presses the fingers of her free hand to a little print reader on the wall, and the door to her quarters slide open. She shoves Damar away from her, inside her quarters, then kicks him square in the ass with her boot. He goes down on all fours with his face planted into the carpet. The door closes behind her.

 

“I don't know what you're trying to do, Damar, but I don't want someone to see us that close together in the hallway. Now that you're in here I'm just going to tell you one more time—and then you're going to leave. I don't know what you want, or who you think you are, but--” Kira stops abruptly.

 

Damar hasn't gotten up. He has picked his head up a little but he isn't getting to his feet. He's breathing heavily though—almost purring. Damar can see only Kira's boots through his hair and he can see that she's circling him.

 

“What are you--” she stops suddenly, then caws laughter, “you... like this? I've been around enough Cardassians to know what it means when their ridges swell. I can't believe you, Damar. You're into this, aren't you?”

 

“I don't know what you're talking about!” Damar says. He gives his head a shake and clenches his teeth defiantly but that deep purring sound has not stopped.

 

“But you're... so demanding, and you just have this presence about you—you don't seem like the submissive type, Damar. Though... I find it kind of appealing. It's not every day I get one of you down on your knees. So much for Cardassian authority.”

Damar begins to growl lowly.

 

“You're so silly, Damar. Growling at me! Look up at me again,” Kira says.

 

Damar doesn't comply. He's purring, and growling; aroused and yet defiant.

 

“Look at me now, Damar,” Kira says, dropping her voice to a cold, commanding, tone.

 

Damar lifts his head slowly.

 

“Very good,” Kira says, “now... stop that growling.”

 

“Why should I listen to you?” Damar snaps.

 

“Because I said so,” Kira says. She yanks his hair a bit and the growling suddenly ceases, “good boy.”

 

“Boy!” Damar protests and he starts to get to his feet then but Kira places both hands on his shoulders, right where the neck ridges disappear into his uniform, so that some of the pressure she uses catches the flushes scales. He slides back down into his former position with a low hiss.

 

“The top of your uniform must be getting uncomfortable against those swollen ridges,” Kira says, “how embarrassing for you...”

 

“I don't like Bajoran women,” Damar says gruffly, “I've never slept with one!”

 

“Well, you can be comforted to know that that's not going to change tonight,” Kira says.

 

She paces a bit as though she's trying to decide what to do next. She isn't asking him to leave again. Damar thinks about heading for the door and getting himself out of this situation. She is right; he is embarrassed at his actions. Under sober circumstances things never would have gone this far. And yet he is aroused—very aroused. He tries to hold back the purring, to put a stop to it, but he can't. He tries to think of something that would settle his prUt and drain the blood from his puffed ridges but he can't focus on anything else but Kira's boots pacing. The pressure of her hand smashing his face against the wall. The yank of his hair. The demanding, commanding, even the degrading words that slip through. They burn in his groin and he wants to bite her, to challenge her, and yet he wants her to keep him on his knees and push back at him even harder.

 

He growls with frustration. His prUt and his ridges are aching.

 

“You're disgusting, Damar,” Kira says, “this whole thing—it's just appalling. You're drunk, on the floor, growling at me, hair in your face—you're just a mess, aren't you?”

 

Damar puffs a breath out his nose.

 

“Yes,” he says, “I am.”

 

“You are what, Damar?”

 

He grinds his teeth. Kira tilts his chin up.

“You're...?” she prompts.

 

“Disgusting,” he grumbles, “appalling, drunk, on the floor... hair... mess...”

 

Kira may have tilted his head but he isn't meeting her gaze. He flicks the tip of his tongue out just a bit against those full and pouty lips. He can taste her scent and tell that she's aroused too. He doesn't know what that means for a Bajoran—do they get wet like Cardassian women? What do their ajans look like? What do they feel like? Damar grimaces.

 

“Disgusting,” he repeats.

 

“I'm not disagreeing with you,” Kira says.

 

“I wasn't talking about myself that time,” Damar says.

 

“You're sassing me,” Kira says, “and if you're referring to _me_ as disgusting in my own quarters, while you're the one on the floor, reeking of kanar—you'd better think twice.”

 

“I can ssssmell you, you know. Tassste-smell,” Damar hisses, “you're enjoying yourself too, Major.”

 

“Why wouldn't I enjoy this, Damar? After all this time with Cardassians thinking they rule all of Bajor, that we're all subjugated to their whims and demands, and now... I've got one of you at my feet? Yes... Damar... I am enjoying this _very_ much. Maybe I really shouldn't be so surprised after all, though. You're always following Dukat around like his little lapdog. Do you lick his boots too? No—I don't want to know about that. But... you could lick mine.”

 

“Lick your boots?” Damar does stop purring then. It just cuts off abruptly. He's surprised at her saying something like that and even more shocked at the throb of pleasure in his prUt. He stares for several moments at the tips of Kira's boots. He lowers his head until they're just below his nose. His prUt is still throbbing and he's thinking of how disgusting this is, how humiliating, how...

 

“Go on, Damar,” Kira says, but her voice is shaking a bit. She sounds a bit emotional. He wonders if she's feeling just as conflicted about this as he is. She is a very dominant woman and yet she would never want to be like her own oppressors, he supposes. But he can smell her boots—a harsh synthetic smell, and some sweat beneath, and then he can smell her arousal. So he swipes his tongue over the tip of one of her boots.

 

He does it again, and again, licking the top of her boot. He swipes his tongue at the join near the ankle, then along the side, and when he gets to the top of the boot he bites the edge of it so hard that a couple of his teeth pop through the material. He growls and Kira yanks his hair again, tugging him away so fiercely that his teeth that were caught on the material of her boot sing with pain. He can taste a little blood from where the boot edge raked his gum.

 

“You bit me, Damar. You've ruined my boot!” she lets go of his hair and tugs her boot off and shows him the bite mark and holes.

 

“Too bad it wasn't a finger instead,” he says.

 

“You're nasty,” Kira says, “wanting to bite my fingers off? What about my toes? You'd probably like that too, wouldn't you?”

 

“I don't like any part of you, Bajoran,” Damar says.

 

Kira yanks her sock off and wiggles her toes.

 

“Oh, you like it, Damar. You may be able to smell me but I can see just how much you like this. Your ridges are full and the blue is so dark they're nearly black. You should probably take that shirt off—but I don't want to see any more of you.”

 

Kira lifts her foot and presses it to Damar's shoulder; that same spot again where the ridges disappear beneath the uniform.

 

“Roll over, Damar,” Kira says in an almost gentle tone.

 

Damar stiffens at that command.

 

“No,” he says.

 

Rolling over would be an even greater sign of submission than resting on his knees.

 

“Damar...”

  
He's breathing so heavily now that he's panting. The purring has come back but it's interrupted at intervals with little whines and grunts of frustration. He hasn't been so powerfully aroused in a long while and the need to touch himself, for some sort of relief, is overwhelming. The arousal seems to burn through every bit of him and he's hot, and dizzy, and so frustrated that he's certain he could fuck just about anything at this moment. Yet he won't roll over for Kira. His palms are firmly planted. His knees hurt from his weight bearing down on them. His muscles are trembling and his head is spinning.

 

“No,” he says again, but it doesn't sound as defiant or as sure as the first one.

 

“Damar... be a good boy, and roll over,” Kira says.

 

He still keeps still for a very long while and then slowly tips himself onto his side, and then his back, laying flat against the floor and staring up at the ceiling. Even the armored parts of uniform don't feel like enough to protect him now. Despite remaining fully clothed he feels completely naked in front of her. Damar is trembling, twitching, his neck ridges are pinching.

 

Kira is looking down at him, circling him, and she seems so far above him now. The humiliation burns in him just as his arousal does and after a few more moments pass he can no longer separate the two feelings. Damar realizes that he is muttering something. _He is begging her._

 

“Please, Kira, please. Kira please...”

 

“Please?” Kira is standing near his head. She lifts her one bare foot and presses it down onto his face, onto his nose, then over his lips. She trails her toes along his throat which is wide and rumbling with noise that he can't seem to stop himself from making.

 

“Oh, Prophets...” Kira continues to stare down at him.

 

Kira lowers herself slowly and straddles his waist. A look of uncertainty crosses her face. Damar's hard Cardassian cock is pressing up against her, between her legs, both of them fully clothed but the fabric between them feels like the thinnest wall. She grinds against him for a moment, her lashes lowering, and Damar cries out. She leans forward so she can pin his wrists beside his head and she does it again. Damar cries out again and Kira bites her lip. She goes very still and Damar just can't take it—he shifts his hips upward to bump against her so hard that he almost unseats her and she gives a yelp of surprise.

 

“No!” Kira slaps him again, a stinging pop on the cheek that catches the lower part of his orbital ridge just barely, “listen to me, Damar,” Kira says in an unsteady voice, “you are not going to get to fuck me. Not tonight, not ever. But... I need some relief right now. You're going to give it to me since you're the one who started this—this--whatever this is. If you bite me... you will not get up from this floor. Do you understand me?”

 

“No... bitesss,” Damar hisses, “no biting.”

 

Kira unzips her suit and shimmies out of it. She has an undershirt but her lower half is bare and the scent of her arousal is stronger to Damar than ever. He is sipping the air and this scent is like nothing he has ever smelled before. It is quite different than the smell of female Cardassian arousal. It is alluring, and yet it is wrong, because it is not the Cardassian scent that he knows. But Kira has turned and her bottom is in his face. She scoots back so that the tops of her thighs rest against his shoulder and neck ridges that are so sensitive, and throbbing, and painful. She sits back and shifts a bit until his mouth is in the right spot. His lips against her lips, so slick and wet, and his nose is bumped up against her opening—so full of that smell that he can think of nothing else.

 

Damar begins to lick her eagerly. His tongue slides over and in between her folds, against sensitive little bulbs of flesh and nerves, against wrinkles that seem to mimic the ones on her nose, tasting this thing he has never tasted before. She rocks against him in response. He wonders if his scaly nose feels good against her opening. Their position leaves her in the perfect spot to repay him with the same kind of pleasure but he is sure she won't do this. But he wishes she would touch him at least—let him out of his pants—wrap her hands around his prUt. He groans but the sound is muffled into Kira's crotch. She rocks back against him and grinds against his nose.

 

“Oh, oh—Damar--” Kira is breathless yet somehow she still sounds in charge.

 

He can feel her pushing the waistline of his pants down and a thrill courses through him: she _is_ going to pleasure him! His prUt springs free and jerks with anticipation.

 

“So, that's what it looks like, hmmm...” Kira says. Damar presses his tongue against one of those flesh things and Kira cries out. He does it again. And again. Her fingers grip the ridges at his hips and her nails bite into the spaces between the scales, “I'm not going to touch that thing. It's ugly,” Kira says.

 

She spits on it.

 

Then with some effort she tugs Damar's pants back up—it takes some doing with his hips jerking in desperation. They're quite strong and it takes all of her strength in return to lean into him and keep them pinned down. He's snuffling and growling against her sensitive areas. The noise vibrates through her.

“I'm going to make you ruin your trousers, Damar. What could be more embarrassing than that? A Bajoran making you cum in your pants like a--” Damar's lips wrap around one of the fleshy little bundles and suck—and Kira screams. Damar cries out too and his release comes hard. His trousers are full of it.

 

His nose too is suddenly full of hot liquid. It leaks down the back of his throat. Kira pushes herself back against his nose one last time and gives a small sigh of relief.

 

She gets up. Damar's face is drenched with her juices and he's coughing and sputtering, snorting, Bajoran liquid bubbling out of his nose.

 

“Da... Damar... I think you should go now,” Kira says quietly, as though she is now fully realizing what they've done.

 

Damar coughs. He groans. He isn't sure that he can move.

 

“Damar—get up,” Kira says.

 

Groaning once more Damar rolls over onto his forearms and knees and then pushes himself up. He gets to his feet. He wobbles. Kira's juices are dripping from his face, from his nose, his lips are swollen, his face is bruised, his ridges hurt and his hair is sticking to his face. Most of all his prUt is all sticky and through the alcohol and orgasm he's beginning to realize too. He growls at her just a bit—what has she done to him? He doesn't like it. Not at all—and yet he did like it so very much. He smears his hand over his face to try to clean it a bit, turns, and stomps towards the door grumbling and growling.

 

“Damar--” Kira calls when he reaches the door. He keeps his back to her, he doesn't turn around, “we're not ever going to talk about this. And we're... we're not going to do it again. Ever.”

 

“You don't sound so sure of that,” Damar says in a voice that is rough and gravelly post-orgasm.

 

“I'm very sure,” Kira says.

 


	4. Gorhoç edek – I Obey. Damar/Dukat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bondage, denial, no aftercare, rough, spit, power/control, dom/sub, manipulation, humiliation, Dukat being creepy. You've been warned.
> 
> Note: This takes place during the episode with the mines right after Damar has arrested Rom and the others and he says to Dukat that Ziyal should be kept in her quarters--implying that he does not trust Ziyal, implying she is a traitor or could be aligned with the Resistance, and Dukat did not take well to that in the episode.

Damar was kneeling naked on the floor in Dukat's quarters. His superior kept his hands laced at the small of his back as he paced slowly. Dukat circled Damar in silence while Damar stared at a spot on the wall in front of him, his shapely lips pursed, his hooded eyes giving away a hint of annoyance at being here in this way. They had been playing this game for quite awhile but with what was currently going on Damar hardly felt it was the proper time to entertain Dukat in this way. 

“You must have known,” Dukat began. His words came out slowly, almost sweetly, and gentle, “yes—you must have known, Damar, that you would need to be punished for saying such a hateful thing about my daughter. You implied... that she was a traitor,” Dukat said.

“We need to be care--” Damar began, but Dukat was suddenly in front of him with impressive speed, and stealth, and the slap against Damar's cheek rang out and his slick black hair fell loosely against his temples. 

Dukat gripped his chin.

“I didn't ask you to speak, Damar,” Dukat said, his voice still oddly sweet, but his eyes boring an angry gaze into Damar's, “how dare you. How dare you tell me that I should keep my daughter locked away in her quarters like a common criminal. You have children, Damar—or at least one child. I suppose not all of us can be as virile as I am.”

Damar twitched at the insult but resisted the urge to grimace and give Dukat any more sign about how he felt about that particular brand of degradation.

“Surely you understand the importance of family. I have always thought that you were as Cardassian as I am,” Dukat continued.

Yes, Damar thought, I do understand the importance of family. But if I had fathered a child by a Bajoran whore, I certainly wouldn't have been proud of her. My son is Cardassian.

Dukat sighed.

“I am a man alone,” he said, “even my most trusted adviser, my right hand, my loyal Damar... shows signs of turning on me. It is difficult to be me. Always the monster no matter how much mercy I show, no matter how gentle my hand. And you are implying that my daughter... that even she... would turn her back on me.”

Dukat leaned towards Damar and tilted his head on his long, slender, neck.

“She will not turn her back on me. Ziyal adores me. I am her father,” Dukat said, “tell me, Damar, how good my daughter is to me.”

Damar took a deep breath. 

“Your daughter is...” Damar began, but his sentence hung in the air as he considered what he was to say, “loyal to you. As am I.”

“Are you, Damar?” Dukat allowed the barest hint of a threatening hiss to slide beneath that strange, sweet, tone, “we'll see how loyal you are, I think.”

Their noses were nearly touching. Damar's breath with the reek of kanar lingered between them and Dukat's cold stare pinned him and made him feel increasingly uncomfortable. Dukat straightened up, turned on his heel, and strode towards a small wardrobe built into one of the walls. A push of a button and the door slid open. Dukat rummaged for a moment then came back with something familiar dangling from his fingertips. 

He dropped the item at Damar's knees and if hit the floor with a soft thump and the clatter of small metal bits. 

“Put it on, Damar,” Dukat instructed.

Damar lifted the harness and slid his fingers along one of the worn, leather, straps. It was made of the hide of a riding hound, black and shiny, covered in little ridges and patterns. The straps were joined with metal rings and various buckles. Damar had worn it many times and he slid the straps over his body. The shoulder straps were thick and rested snugly against his shoulder ridges. A strap ran the width of his chest and o-ring rest just below Damar's chuva. Two more straps ran the length of Damar's torso, and down his armored back, hooking to the belt that rest just above Damar's hip ridges. There were a pair of leather wrist cuffs too, and one more item, but Dukat was still holding onto those.

Dukat held out one of the other pieces for him. 

This was a thick collar designed to pinch the neck ridges and keep them from when the wearer was aroused. 

“Actually,” Dukat said, jerking the collar away from Damar when he reached for it, “I think I'll put it on you myself, this time.”

Dukat made a motion with his free hand. Damar frowned and seemed as though he wasn't going to comply with the unspoken command. But at last he bowed his head. Dukat slithered behind him. He grasped Damar's chin with one hand and tilted it up, tipping Damar's head back against his groin. Dukat affixed the collar with agile fingers buckling it tightly in the back. He gave it a sharp jerk to make sure it was secure and Damar inhaled a sharp gasp. Blood pumped to his ridges with a jolt of arousal but the flare was quickly diminished by the collar. Damar groaned.

“I must admit, Damar, you have always worn these things so... handsomely,” Dukat purred from above him.

Dukat knelt behind Damar and curled his fingers around one of his wrists. He stroked the soft skin there where Damar's pulse thrummed just beneath his skin. It was a very vulnerable spot and Damar jerked his wrist away on instinct. Dukat's grasp tightened.

“I don't think so, Damar,” Dukat said. There was surprising strength in Dukat's wiry frame and though Damar was probably stronger he knew better than to fight like this. He stayed stiff and still as Dukat slid the cuffs onto his wrists and then hooked him to a piece of the harness so that his arms were kept folded and secured behind him. Dukat's breath came hot against the thick scales on the back of Damar's neck as Dukat admired his handiwork.  
“Now,” Dukat said as he rose to his full height and came around to the front to look down upon Damar, “what do you say, Damar?”

“I... I obey, Gul,” Damar said quietly.

“Louder, Damar,” Dukat demanded, the sweet tone sliding away to reveal something much more commanding. 

“I obey, Gul!” Damar said.

“Of course you do, Damar,” Dukat said, and he began to chuckle, a strange grin parting and curving his lips, “you are doing such a good job... but there is still the matter of your punishment for your disgraceful words earlier.”

Dukat began to circle Damar in that slow, predatory, way of his as he seemed to consider what sort of punishment he intended to dole out upon Damar. Damar felt the urge to shift under his gaze, to relieve his knees from the kneeling just a bit, but he knew he must stay still so he kept himself rigid and upright as he waited. Dukat seemed to enjoy toying with him this way, making him wait for things, and it was something that Damar had grown to enjoy too. Anticipation could be very arousing. Damar intended to control himself, however, attempting to calm the rising tide of desire before it flowed to his ridges and tried to swell them again. Damar concentrated on his breathing while Dukat moved towards the replicator. 

Moments later Dukat returned with a small toy in his hand. It was a flogger with a braided handle and a spray of leather pieces hanging off of it. Damar swallowed. He made a small sound but managed to hold back another groan as his ridges tried to flare again. 

“You know, Damar, when you spoke of my daughter in such a way... you wounded in me where I am most vulnerable,” Dukat said, “I only think it appropriate that I should do the same to you. You know, I don't enjoy punishing you. I am not a brutal man. But you leave me no choice this time.”

Another hand motioned signaled Damar to stand. It was a bit difficult doing so with his arms pinned behind his back as they were but Damar got to his feet. Even wrapped in leather straps and a restraint collar he managed to look proud. His gray body was strong, well maintained, decorated with ridges and scales in the most flattering patterns. But there were many parts of him that were soft, and smooth, and unguarded. 

Dukat snapped his wrist and the flogger caught Damar across his sensitive belly. Damar grunted at the sting and immediately thin little marks, dark and raised, began to bloom against Damar's skin. Dukat snapped the flogger again and this time it stung against Damar's inner thigh. Then his chest, his bicep, one of his ass cheeks. Dukat was circling him once more as he carefully chose the spots to punish. 

The back of his thighs. His belly again, and again, and the other bicep. Damar's chest was straining at his harness as he breathed heavily, his ridges aching, his skin burning and tingling in so many spots. 

“You do wear the marks well,” Dukat said, “but I shouldn't praise you—I'm far to kind to you, Damar. My gentle side has always been my greatest weakness,” Dukat said sadly. He snapped the flogger again across Damar's belly. It caught his chuva and it was so sensitive that Damar gave out a choked cry at the pain of it and the swell of his neck ridges that followed, and ceased, and he growled in frustration and yanked his wrists but that did no good since they were trapped behind him.

“Now, now, Damar,” Dukat said, “there's no point in struggling. For one who claims to be loyal to me, his superior, you do seem quite defiant at times. What's the matter, Damar... are you aroused by this punishment?” Dukat shook his head, “how shameful of you. Oh,” Dukat grinned as he moved closer to Damar, “it seems that you are...” Dukat glanced down to Damar's prUt which had erected fully from his slit. 

“It is a decent prUt, I suppose,” Dukat said, “though... not as mighty as mine,” he chuckled, “it is really a shame that a man of your age has only fathered one child.”

Damar bared his teeth at Dukat, immediately angry with himself for taking the bait, but this was a subject as sensitive for Damar as Ziyal was for Dukat. If anything Dukat always knew what he was doing, how to manipulate, how to strike in just the right places. Damar hated that he was struck here and yet—there was still some form of admiration that he couldn't quite understand. 

“Don't be so crude, Damar,” Dukat said, “showing your teeth to me in such a way. It's quite primitive of you.”

“I'm not primitive enough to sleep with the kind of women who keep you company,” Damar said gruffly, his tongue getting away from him before he could reign it in. It was quite a daring thing to say to Dukat. Normally he would have left that thought in his head but Dukat was pushing him and Damar had trouble keeping his thoughts to himself at times. 

“What kind of women, Damar?” Dukat asked sweetly, almost touching his nose to Damar's as he waited for a response.

“Those... those Bajoran... women,” Damar practically spat.

“Perhaps you're simply jealous. You can't have my full attention. After all my libido is... far too demanding for one man to tend to. But you do enjoy tending to it, don't you?” Dukat said. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his military trousers and pushed them down his lanky thighs, “on your knees, Damar. If you would rather take care of my needs I can certainly arrange for that.”

“That wasn't--” Damar began, but Dukat growled at him and puffed his chest and neck ridges. Damar bent under his authority and sat back down on his knees. That brought his face level with Dukat's erect prUt. It was longer than Damar's but slender, almost fragile looking, somewhat mirroring the build of Dukat's distinctly long neck. 

“If you're going to open your mouth I'm going to fill it,” Dukat said, gripping Damar's chin roughly. Being stubborn Damar refused to open for him. Dukat jammed one of his fingertip at a pressure point behind Damar's jaw ridges and it brought his mouth right open. Before Damar could say anything more or snap his mouth closed, Dukat had shoved himself in and down deep without allowing Damar the time to relax his throat for it. Damar choked and gagged which caused the spasming muscles of his throat and neck to pinch against the collar. 

“Stop it!” Dukat shouted, slapping his open palm against Damar's cheek as Damar continued to struggle against his prUt and attempt to adjust. Thick strands of ropy saliva slid down Damar's chin. “Control yourself, Damar...” Dukat demanded coolly while Damar gasped and sputtered, “relax... there... good...”

Dukat pushed further in once Damar's throat had relaxed around him. He grabbed the back of Damar's head and kept him there with his lips wrapped around the base of his prUt, his nose and chufa pressed into Dukat's groin and lower belly.

“Oh yes, you're very good at this when you don't fight it,” Dukat said. 

Damar was full of his prUt and doing his best to stay relaxed but his throat was beginning to spasm again. Dukat let go of Damar's head and slid himself half out. Damar shuddered and took in a few desperate breaths. But before he could recover Dukat was down his throat again. The game repeated again, again, and again, until Damar was trembling, covered his his own foamy spit, and there was a puddle of slime in between them from Dukat pushing him until he had regurgitated the kanar he had drank earlier.

“You disgust me, Damar,” Dukat said. But he didn't seem to be complaining about his hard prUt slick and dripping with his own liquids and Damar's spit, “you have no place to judge me for who shares my bed—just look at you. Look at you!”

Dukat moved behind him and unlatched his wrists.

“Come, Damar. Jerk your prUt for me and leave your come on my floor with that pile of vomit. Do it,” Dukat hissed.

“I... I can't...” Damar said, his voice raspy and rough.

“Oh, I think you can,” Dukat said, “your prUt is very hard and aching. You can't deny that when I can see it with my own eyes. Jerk it and waste your useless seed at my feet,” Dukat said. He moved yet again and stood in front of Damar with the puddle of mess in between them. 

Damar touched his prUt with hesitation but as soon as his fingers grazed it he knew there was no turning back. He needed to relieve it badly. Damar watched Dukat watch him as he jerked his prUt harder, faster, harder—yes--

Dukat yanked his hand away and Damar roared at him in frustration. His hips jerked forward shoving his prUt up against Dukat's leg. Dukat laughed darkly.

“No better than a hound humping his masters shin,” Dukat said.

Damar closed his eyes and panted. The purring that had built with his arousal came to an abrupt stop. His neck ridges ached. His prUt ached. Dukat was yanking his wrists behind them and clasping them to the belt again.

“No...” Damar moaned.

“Yesss,” Dukat hissed, “I don't think you're ready to come just yet.”

Damar trembled with need but he said nothing.  
Dukat came to his front again and knelt, sliding his fingers up the understand of Damar's prUt. He traced the ring of smooth scales along the slit that strained around the base of Damar's prUt. He pressed the butt of his palm against the testicle bulge beneath. 

“It is quite swollen, isn't it? Maybe I was mitsaken,” Dukat said, “do you want to come, Damar?”

“Yes,” Damar growled.

“Hm,” Dukat trailed his fingers up to Damar's shaft again and gripped the base of his prUt loosely and slid his hand slowly up. It was enough to be teasing, but not enough to get Damar off. Damar jerked his hips in aggitation, “are you certain?”

“Yes!”

“Yes what, Damar?” Dukat said. He gripped the shaft again in that loose, teasing, way that was driving Damar mad. It was touching, but not touching, not enough.

“Y-yes Gul Dukat, Sir, I want to come,” Damar said.

“Are you begging me?” Dukat chuckled, “begging me to let you come in this pile of filth? Begging me to allow you to let go? I think... that I should be allowed that pleasure first,” Dukat said.

He got to his feet again and left Damar trembling, aching, panting. Dukat looped his finger into one of the rings on Damar's collar and gave it a hard yank. The pain was so great that Damar was certain he wouldn't be able to stand when they were finished. It radiated through his trapped neck ridges, down his arms, down his spines, and coiled low in his belly into something deep and hot there. 

“Open your mouth now, Damar,” Dukat said.

Damar did as he was told and allowed Dukat to tip his head back. Dukat jerked himself until he came in Damar's mouth filling it until the liquid gushed over his shapely lips and down his chin.

“Ohh...” Dukat purred, “yes... that's lovely. Don't swallow it, hold it there—I want you taste the power in that seed, Damar. I want you smell it. Revel in it,” Dukat's eyes glittered at Damar as he held the thick liquid in his mouth staring up at Dukat and breathing through his nose and waiting, waiting on Dukat's command.

“There's a lot there, isn't there?” Dukat said, “can you swallow it all down? Show me... swallow it all Damar. Take it all...”

Damar considered closing his mouth and letting Dukat's come spill out of his lips and waste away onto the floor. He considered spitting it out onto Dukat's feet. But he didn't want to drag things out any longer. He wanted to come and if he defied Dukat and denied him the pleasure of watching him drink down his come then Dukat might keep toying with him even longer. Damar swallowed and Dukat caught whatever escaped from the corners of his lips and made him lick it from his fingers. The glob of thick secretions slid slowly down Damar's throat and for a moment he was sure he couldn't do it—that he was going to be sick—but then it seemed to settle in his belly and it felt oddly, shamefully, satisfying. 

“Good, very good, Damar. Now... now you may come,” Dukat said. He unhooked Damar's wrists one again, “come on that mess of yours,” Dukat instructed, just like the previous time.

Except this time he let Damar come.

Damar roared loudly and his come spilled onto the floor and the mess that was already there. He gasped and panted when he was finished, trembling, grateful that Dukat had let him come. He felt dizzy and his head full of fog. The sensations helped to dull the pain in his ridges. 

“We're done here, Damar,” Dukat said coolly, “take of those things and leave them on my bed. Clean that mess before you go. Use the dermal regenerator. I don't like for you to leave my quarters with marks.”

Damar's arms felt heavy as he reached for the buckles on the back of his collar and undid them. He sat the collar aside and took a few deep breaths. The other pieces of leather and metal came off too and Damar stood and began to search for his clothing.

“I don't want to do this any longer, sir,” Damar said as he put his pants on. Dukat was lounging on his bed as though he hadn't a care, “besides... we have greater things to worry about right now... and I don't enjoy this as much as I once I had.”

“I try to be good to you... I let you come... and you tell me you didn't even enjoy yourself?” Dukat shook his head, “I don't believe you.”

Damar wasn't certain if he believed his words either. But even so there was a war going on and there were greater things to tend to than Dukat's libido. He thought about the prisoners he had in a holding cell down in security, the minefield, and Ziyal... it didn't matter what Dukat said. Damar still didn't trust her. She wasn't Cardassian. Nothing Dukat said to him, or to himself, could change that.


	5. Damar/Weyoun-Defective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another Damar/Weyoun because I love them.

Damar is savoring a mouthful of his favorite beverage when the door chime catches him off guard. Who would be chiming at this hour? Damar takes his bottle of kanar with him to the door and when the door slides open he is standing in wide stance, shoulders squared, chin tilted up, lips pouty. He's not very happy about being bothered just now. But also standing there on the other side of the door is Weyoun. Usually the Vorta holds himself in a stiff, proper way. It almost prim. His aloofness seeps out of him but right now he is hunched, round-shouldered, and wide eyed like an unsure little prey animal. Damar sips the air subtly and he can smell Weyoun—the scent is so strong Damar takes a step back. He gives the Vorta a small nod.

“What do you want?” Damar says gruffly.

“Oh, Damar,” Weyoun says, a slow and uneasy smile curving his thin lips, “might I... come in for a moment?”

“If you have to,” Damar says. He motions for Weyoun to enter with the sweep of one arm and takes a drink of his kanar right from the bottle. Weyoun shuffles in and the door slides closed behind him. 

“I'm afraid I do,” Weyoun says. He moves past Damar and settles himself in front of a round window overlooking the darkness of space. Both of the men remain with their backs towards each other as Weyoun continues to speak, “I think I may be defective... and it's you fault,” Weyoun says.

Damar turns now.

“My fault? If it's the fault of anyone then it must be an error on behalf of you beloved gods,” Damar says, “I certainly have nothing to do with your genetics.”

“Gods don't make errors!” Weyoun says tersely, turning to face Damar now, a small crease forming between his eyebrows, “and it has nothing to do with my genetics. It has to do with my... memories,” Weyoun whispers the last word, and his eyes flick briefly to Damar's groin, then back to the Cardassian's face.

“What memories, Weyoun?” Damar asks. He has a pretty good idea what this is about but he wants to hear it from Weyoun himself. The Vorta's cheeks flush a soft, pretty, shade of lavender. 

“Something that happened between you and the Weyoun previous to me,” the Vorta says, “it won't leave me alone. I think of it quite often, and at the most... inappropriate times...” his voice falls to a whisper again, “it's distracting.”

Damar is smirking now. He can't help it. 

“He must have really enjoyed sucking my prUt if it's giving you that much trouble,” Damar says. He takes another sip from his bottle, “but tell me, Weyoun, don't you enjoy that memory at all?”

Damar already knows the answer. The truth is in the scent that comes from the Vorta in waves. Even as they speak Weyoun is aroused.

The Vorta turns himself half away from Damar and crosses his arms over his chest, tilts his chin up, trying to be defiant.

“Why would I enjoy such a thing?”

“Your previous incarnation did. It isn't out of the realm of possibility to infer that you'd enjoy it too,” Damar says, “don't be so uptight, Weyoun. Why don't you try a little kanar?” he offers the bottle. Weyoun scoffs.

“I don't want any of your kanar,” he says, “what I want is for this... this... memory, this feeling to go away!”

“Now there are feelings, too?” Damar has come close to Weyoun and his hovering just behind him, his nose very close to the Vorta's ear, “what sort of feelings?” Damar hisses.

“Oh...” Weyoun moans, “the feeling of... of...” the pale purplish blush on the Vorta's cheeks grow more intense, “the feel of my parts quivering.”

“Are you quivering now, Weyoun?” Damar asks, his warm breath sliding across the Vorta's skin.

“I've been quivering all day,” the Vorta whines, “and before that, whenever that memory strikes—which is often—oh--and nothing I do relieves it!”

“What have you done, I wonder?” Damar asks, “do you touch yourself?”

“Yes,” Weyoun says in a very small voice, “as often as I can,” the Vorta's small hand slides down to the waistband of his pants and rests there, “but it never... it never satisfies.”

Damar places his bottle of kanar on a nearby table and slides up to Weyoun so that his chest and the Vorta's back are flush. He curves his arm around the Vorta to hold him close and his hands slides in between Weyoun's trembling legs.

“You're horny,” Damar says, pressing his fingertips against the seam of Weyoun's pants. The fabric is wet.

“Don't be crass!” Weyoun exclaims, but his hips shift a little as he presses himself down against Damar's hand. 

“It isn't crass. That's just what it's called when you're so wound up your soaking your pants,” Damar chuckles.

“That has been happening... quite frequently...” Weyoun admits, moving his hips a bit more eagerly, “Damar, please—please... this feeling is taking my focus away from my purpose. I was created to serve the Founders, but I am constantly overcome by this need...”

Damar's strong hands find the waistband of Weyoun's pants and slide them down his pale, narrow, hips. Weyoun's inner thighs are flushed that pretty shade of purple and when Damar slides his hand along the smooth skin it is warm and damp with sticky fluids that have been seeping from Weyoun's eager parts. Damar glides his fingers along Weyoun's slick and dripping parts and finds that they open for him easily. He sinks three fingers deep inside without any problem at all. Weyoun's knees go weak but Damar holds him, and he makes the loveliest keening noise. 

The inside is full of vibrating membranes that grasp at Damar's fingers and immediately there are glistening liquids coating Damar's hand and dripping onto the floor between them. Weyoun is rolling his hips in slow circles as Damar strokes and pleasures him. The Vorta is quivering against him, whining his name, begging him for more. 

Damar is partially erect and he moves against Weyoun so that the Vorta can feel it.

“Oh!” Weyoun cries, “that magnificent thing—I remember what it looks like, so large, and handsome. I remember what it feels like between my lips, and the texture against my tongue...”

“Mm, I do like to hear about how large and handsome my prUt is,” Damar says, his ridges puffing, “and magnificent... yes, I like that.”

“Oh, it is simply...” Weyoun tilts his head back against one of Damar's shoulder ridges and lets out a shivery gasp that seems to prickle up and down Damar's spine with the pure need that is in it, “awe inspiring,” Weyoun says breathily.

“What would your gods think if they heard you saying such things to me?” Damar says.

“I'm certain I would be deactivated,” Weyoun says, “but--”

“But...?”

“I need this,” Weyoun cries.

Damar's fingers leave that wonderful wet place and Weyoun gives a shrill little cry of protest.

“Just a minute—if you enjoy the memory of my prUt so much, I think you should experience it for yourself,” Damar says.

He carries Weyoun to his bed and drops him down. Weyoun's pants are tangle around his ankles and he quickly kicks off his shoes and rids himself of the pants while Damar is opening his own pants. Damar watches Weyoun who is on his back on Damar's bed, his legs spread, one of them hooked on his arm just behind the knee. Weyoun's glistening parts are on display for him now and while Damar is normally repulsed by the idea of sex with species outside his own, he can't help but be intrigued by Weyoun when he is like that. His parts are more similar to a Cardassian ajan—what would be found on a woman. The bright purple lips are spread to reveal inner membranes that are such a deep shade of violet that they are almost black. The membranes form an opening near the bottom and squeeze together at the top and just above that sits a thick little nub of smooth flesh that is slightly protruding and very swollen looking. 

Damar seems to recall that the previous Weyoun had told him that he had no parts at all. Either he was lying, or this was some sort of flaw, but surely the Founders would have noticed if one of their clones had a very obvious set of genitals. 

“Ohhh,” Weyoun gasps as Damar's prUt stands erect, “it's even more magnificent than those memories,” Weyoun whispers, his violet eyes so large and wide as he stares with lust, “I don't want it to go into my mouth this time. I want it to be inside of me—oh—Damar, I want it more than I have ever wanted anything!” Weyoun arches his back and spreads his legs even wider, “Damar, please!”  
Damar sinks himself in right away, all the way down to his base, and Weyoun keens and grips the sheets between white knuckles. 

“Oh, oh!” Weyoun cries, “yes!” 

Damar's thrusts are hard, and powerful, and Weyoun urges him to keep going. The Vorta writhes and trembles beneath him with pleasure as Damar works for both of their orgasms and smirks down at Weyoun who looks as though he is having the greatest religious experience of his life.

“More! Harder! Oh, Damar! Damar! Give me as much as you can—I want everything!” 

Damar is certain that the Vorta will be quite bruised when they're finished. But the fragile looking creature seems surprisingly sturdy as Damar gives him what he asks for. Weyoun's inner membranes are humming and vibrating all around Damar's prUt and each thrust brings the sticky slap of wet skin and the squelching noises of a very wet Vorta. Damar has never had sex with something so messy but if feels so good—he begins to purr with pleasure, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

The Vorta is shouting his name, gasping, keening—and then finally the folds enveloping Damar's prUt clench around him and cease their vibrations as Weyoun tenses beneath him. The pressure brings Damar's orgasm crashing through him suddenly and as soon as his hot seed fills the Vorta's insides, the folds release him and Weyoun relaxes with a cry, and a gush of purplish ooze stains Damar's bed sheets.

“Oh... gods...” Weyoun gasps, “I have died...”

Damar chuckles from above him.

“That isn't dying. That's just the way a good fuck makes you feel,” he says, “I never knew that sex with a Vorta was so messy,” Damar curls his lips, “it's disgusting.”

“You seem to have enjoyed it,” Weyoun says, but there isn't any acid in his retort, unlike the usual barbs traded between the two. Weyoun's eyes have a far away look in them as though he's sliding into some sort of trance. 

“Now that I've taken care of you, and you've made a mess of my bed, you can leave,” Damar says.

“Leave? Oh, I don't think I'm capable of moving,” Weyoun says, “all the bones in my body have turned to... mush...”

Damar gives a small sigh. He's irritated since he really has no desire to have Weyoun in his bed after their sex has finished. But maybe he could tolerate it with a little more kanar.

Damar returns to the bed with his bottle. He's decided to get rid of the rest of his clothing and just enjoy the heat of his quarters in the nude. Weyoun doesn't blink at him, simply continues to stare up at the ceiling. 

“Scoot over,” Damar says gruffly. Weyoun doesn't respond so Damar scoots him over and then lays down with some pillows propped behind him. He sips his kanar.

“I don't understand,” Weyoun says at last.

“Understand what?” Damar asks.

Weyoun is quiet for several moments.

“No god... has ever made me feel...” Weyoun closes his eyes, and whispers, “like this.”

“Ah, that is the power of the Cardassian prUt,” Damar says, and he laughs, “are you certain you don't want to try a bit of kanar?”

Judging by his breathing Weyoun has fallen asleep. Damar continues to drink.

Around the same time the next evening Damar is disturbed once again by his door chime. The same visitor is at his door but now the Vorta is scowling at him. 

“I thought you had fixed this—this—problem!” Weyoun sputters. He strides into Damar's quarters without waiting for invitation.

The door slides closed behind him.

“You seemed quite relieved last night,” Damar says.

“Yes—and I was blessedly free of that feeling all day long... until a few moments ago. It's happening again! All I can think about is how much I want you to—to--” 

Damar is waiting for him to finish.

“For me to do what, Weyoun?”

Weyoun narrows his eyes at Damar. He's obviously angry that his 'feeling' has come back. Damar hadn't thought to explain to him that coming once didn't mean one was relieved from ever feeling horny again. 

“To fuck me,” Weyoun spits the words at him.

“You know where the bed is,” Damar says.

Weyoun undresses himself and lays down on the bed with his legs parted and waiting. Damar thinks it will be a shame when the Founders find out that this clone is defective. The one thing about a Weyoun that he could actually enjoy—but the Founders would not permit a clone with such overpowering sexual appetites to exist. The Vorta had been created unable to experience pleasure because the Founders must have known that had they given them such abilities, their focus on their gods would be drawn away.

“Damar,” Weyoun calls to him in a voice that is both artificially sweet, and an impatient demand, “I'm waiting.”


	6. Damar/Garak - Everything's Better With Yamok Sauce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Public sex, food play.

Damar has seen the red dress on display in the window of Garak's Clothier's for at least a week now. Each time he passes he stops to admire it. The cut and style of it is simple, and it isn't even a Cardassian design, and yet as Damar's eye skims over it and the way it hangs on the mannequin he imagines it against gray skin and a cascade of silky hair like a fan of ink. This shade of red isn't commonly worn on Cardassia but something about the dress just keeps his interest and it appears to him often in his fantasies.

Damar is considering purchasing the dress and has been standing for quite awhile with his lips set in a hard line just staring at it and entertaining his common fantasy about it. He shifts when he realizes he's let the fantasy go too far for public. His genital slit is wet and the tip of his prUt is trying to nudge it open. Damar glances around briefly to make sure no one is paying him any attention and then he presses his fingertips against the slight bulge in his pants to nudge his prUt back. He wants that dress.

“Tailor,” Damar says gruffly upon entering the shop. He strides with purpose towards Garak who is fussing with a display.

“Ah, Damar,” Garak turns from his display and gives Damar a wide, friendly, smile, “you've caught me at a bad time I'm afraid. I was just considering a break for lunch. Would you care to join me?”

Damar huffs. He never comes into Garak's store to 'buy' anything and the tailor's offer seems to reflect that. If he had seen Damar as a purchasing customer he would be trying to sell him something and pushing his lunch break back to accommodate his clients needs; or at least that's what a good business man would do. Damar purses his lips. The way Garak is eyeing him is quite obvious. Garak flicks his tongue briefly against his lips and Damar gives a small sigh. Garak has obviously scented his arousal.

“And you assume a busy man of my rank can spare time to sit in the Replimat and banter with you about banal things over mediocre, replicated, slop?”

Garak's smile shows his teeth now and his blue eyes twinkle. 

“I assume that even busy men must eat, despite the quality of the food—or lack thereof—and that you might find a bit of company to be... agreeable,” Garak says.

Damar scoffs.

“Your company, you mean. If I wanted company I could find it elsewhere. I don't need the offer from a lowly tailor, and an exile,” Damar says. He tilts his chin up and turns away from Garak. 

Damar begins to stride away telling himself he'll come in for the dress another day. But Garak is following close behind him and with a little hop the tailor falls into stride beside him, then steps in front of him, so close that their chests are almost touching. Garak gives a flamboyant sweeping gesture with his arms.

“Oh, but you have found my company quite enjoyable in the past, as I seem to recall,” Garak tilts his chin up too. It's a subtle challenge. 

Their bantering, barbs, and body language, are all a practiced Cardassian dance. Damar's slit is still wet and his prUt is nudging it again. He licks his lips. He knows that their an attractive feature and wetting them only makes them more appealing—and also he is scenting Garak now. The other man is aroused too. Of course that is no surprise. 

Garak has never had much regard for personal space and he doesn't seem inclined to give Damar anymore room. But instead of step back or around the tailor Damar presses even closer. They're touching now from the fronts of their thighs to their chests. Damar squares his shoulders and pushes his chest out against Garak's. He is displaying his dominance in this situation. Garak's eyes darken with lust and the tailor gives him a very low, subtle, growing noise in his throat. But Garak does not push back.

“Fine,” Damar says abruptly, “I'll humor you.”

He sidesteps Garak and continues on out of the shop. He gives a brief look over his shoulder to see Garak scrambling to close the shop and come after him.

“How very generous of you to accept my offer,” Garak says as they fall into step together now leaving Garak's shop behind them, “I'll be sure to keep the... conversation... stimulating. I certainly wouldn't want you to grow bored with me. Though if you simply can't keep up... I will understand.”

“I can keep up just fine,” Damar says.

Their conversation isn't just about conversation. There are layers behind it that both of them can read and Damar is enjoying himself too much. Garak is quite good at verbal play. Dukat doesn't speak to him in this way, and the insults and barbs he and Weyoun trade these days are genuine. But he and Garak can play this game and it is familiar, and Cardassian, and it reminds him of home. Damar and his wife engage in this dance quite often and there is no question to where it leads them—her soaked ajan wrapped around his prUt. He imagines her in the kitchen in that red dress in Garak's window, leaning back against the counter, and sliding the fabric up her thighs and spreading her legs to reveal her horny ajan to him. She calls his name--

“...Damar,” except she sounds like Garak.

Damar blinks the fantasy away.

“What... yes?”

“You're quite distracted, aren't you?” Garak says, “I simply said: after you, Damar,” Garak makes a sweeping gesture towards the line at the Replimat where they have arrived. Damar grunts. The line is too long and he's not only aroused but also realizes that he's starving. Damar doesn't feel like waiting so he snags Garak's wrist and pulls him along to the front of the line where he cuts off the person who was next.

“Excuse us,” Garak says in his polite tailor tone.

“I could eat a whole zabo right now,” Damar says as he orders. 

They take their food to an empty table and sit down. Garak has a hearty bowl of stew with yamok sauce while Damar has a plate heaped with two thick zabo steaks and mounds of root vegetables in a pale sauce made of zabo milk and spices. 

Damar digs into his food right away without any preamble conversation. His head is bent and he can feel Garak watching him shove food into his mouth. 

“Well,” Garak says, “you're certainly not worried about manners, are you?”

Damar lifts his head to see Garak poising his spoon in an almost delicate way, his little finger lifted, his head tilted at Damar as though Damar's eating is a disdainful act. Damar's cheeks are full of vegetables and he considers talking to Garak while he chews just to bother the other man. 

“You're right,” Damar says, “I'm hungry.”

Garak pins him with an annoyed expression which delights Damar who finishes chewing and swallowing.

“So am I. But I see no need to gulp my food like a ravenous hound,” Garak says. He dips his spoon into his stew and blows on the steaming food before eating.

“Hm,” Damar says, as he saws off a hunk of his steak, “well, this is going to take more chewing,” he says, “never trust a replicator for a good steak.”

He pops the morsel into his mouth. It's tough rather than the tender, juicy, treat that he'd hoped for. Damar grabs the bottle of yamok sauce in the center of the table and dumps a hearty amount over the steaks. As his mother had been fond of saying: yamok makes everything better. Damar pauses to like a smear of sauce from his finger.

“Really,” Garak scolds, “I know you're a military man but must you be so sloppy and uncouth?”

“You don't seem to mind when I've made you messy,” Damar says, “maybe you'd rather I was licking sauce from your hands.”

Damar smirks as he notices Garak's ridges puff. 

“You must be referring to some sort of fantasy, or dream,” Garak says, straightening his posture, “I have no idea what you're referring to.”

Damar snorts. He goes back to shoveling in the food. Garak asks him if he's ever read “The Never Ending Sacrifice”. Damar says that he has. What sort of Cardassian hasn't read it? Garak tries to engage him in a discussion of the book but Damar's answers to his questions are short, blunt, and contain little analyses of the literature. Damar could expand his answers but he's enjoying irritating the tailor by refusing to engage him properly in the discussion. 

Damar has finished his food while Garak, who was doing much more talking than he was, still has stew left in his bowl. Garak pauses in mid sentence.

“I think I'm quite finished with this,” Garak says, “perhaps you'd like to finish it. You have quite the appetite. I wouldn't want you to leave the table feeling... unsated.”

Garak pushes the bowl towards Damar who takes the offer.

“Only if I don't have to eat it the way you do,” Damar says. He lifts his spoon and mimics the way Garak holds it.

Garak folds his hands in front of him on the table and says nothing. He is hiding his irritation now beneath his tailor's kind smile.

“Oh,” Garak says when Damar has polished off the last of the stew. Garak tugs his napkin free of his collar, leans across the table, and swipes away a smear of sauce from Damar's pouty lower lip. 

Damar leans back in his chair and stretches a bit, arcing his back, and pushing his tummy out. He gives it a little pat.

“Much better,” he says. 

“Hmm, perhaps we should consider a lovely desert,” Garak says, “a bit of an indulgence.”

“I'm not much for sweets,” Damar says, “I like hearty foods.”

Garak huffs.

Damar thinks that Garak wasn't speaking about food. He chuckles.

“Maybe just this once, tailor,” Damar says. He gives another languid stretch then rises from his seat. Garak follows after him and finds that Damar is headed for the refresher. There's no one else in line for it, or even hovering nearby, so Damar draws Garak into the bathroom and locks the door behind them. 

“Ugh,” Garak wrinkles his nose, “I must say this refresher was kept much cleaner when the Federation was here. Your men seem to have as a few manners as you do,” Garak cautiously bumped the toe of his boot against a wad of toilet paper left on the floor.

“Surely you've seen worse in your day than a sloppy bathroom,” Damar says.

“Oh, people do bring clothing to me with all manner of suspicious stains on them,” Garak says.

Damar considers rolling his eyes at that comment. 

“Well, I think you're going to wear my stain today, tailor,” Damar says, “on your knees among the filth.”

Garak's eyes flash at Damar's command. Damar is pointing down to the ground as though training a hound to lay down for him. Garak glances around the place as though trying to find the cleanest spot on the floor.

“Stop wasting my time,” Damar growls, “now, tailor.”

Garak drops down to his knees. Damar moves towards him but then he takes notice of something sitting at the edge of one of the sonic sinks. There are empty kanar bottles in it but on the edge is a bottle of yamok sauce. Damar swipes it and screws the lid off. He tosses the lid aside and slides his finger down the neck of the bottle and comes away with sauce dripping. Garak is watching him closely. Damar smears the sauce over Garak's lips. The tailor licks at them and even gets the tip of Damar's finger.

“Is it delicious?” Damar asks him as Garak's tongue slides sensually over his dirty lips.

“Yes,” Garak says.

“Not nearly as delicious as my come will taste.”

“Not nearly,” Garak agrees. He sits back with his rump against his heels and tilts his chin up as though asking for more. 

Damar repeats the process and watches Garak lick his lips clean. But this time Garak grips Damar's wrist with both hands and licks the sauce from Damar's finger too. He sucks the wet digit into his mouth and rolls his skillful tongue all around it then hollows his cheeks for a good suction. Damar's prUt is straining the front of his pants. He knows the tailor has a wonderful mouth and he is already aching to feel it on his prUt.

“Your mouth is one of the best I've had,” Damar says, deciding to make Garak privy to his praise.

“Thank you, dear,” Garak says. He gives a little nip to the end of Damar's finger. His top teeth bump the trimmed claw, “one must keep in practice to maintain ones skill set.”

“Mm, yes, and I'm sure you practice as often as you can—slut,” Damar says. 

“I do. But it isn't often I have such a magnificent prUt to practice on,” Garak says. His lusty gaze aims straight at Damar's prUt. 

Damar sits the bottle down on the floor and pushes his trousers down to display his erect prUt for Garak. 

“Oh yes, it's a very nice prUt,” Garak says, “very thick, and I must admit that I do so enjoy to be filled by a large prUt.”

Damar chuckled.

“It's strange to hear you speak with such honesty,” Damar says.

“There's no harm in admitting to such a desire—and besides—you're already quite aware that I enjoy it,” Garak says. He flicks his tongue out to tease the tip.

“You assume I'm going to fuck you,” Damar says bluntly as he watches Garak flick his tongue teasingly.

“I should hope so!” Garak seems offended, “I'm on a dirty floor in my favorite pair of trousers. The least you can do is give me a good fuck in return.”

Damar threads his fingers through Garak's hair.

“We'll see,” he says. He has every intention of fucking the tailor but playing with him is half the fun. Garak's eyes flash at him and then he bows his head at the urging of Damar's hand and wraps his lips around the end of his prUt.

Garak went to work on him and Damar hummed appreciatively at his skillful mouth working its magic around him. Garak stops too soon and turns his attention to the bottle of yamok that Damar had placed on the floor. He dips his finger into the bottle and smears some of the yamok onto one of Damar's thickly muscled thighs. 

“Oh, that's lovely,” Garak says, and then he leans in and swipes his tongue over the soft skin to clean the sauce away. The strokes of his tongue are languid and warm. 

Damar pets Garak's hair appreciatively. He holds his hand out for the sauce bottle and Garak hands it over. Damar smears some of the yamok onto his chuva hiding the dark blue flush beneath the sauce. Garak licks his lips.

“What a tasty chuva you have, my dear,” Garak says.

Garak leans in and swirls the sauce around with his tongue. Damar tosses his head back and gives a deep groan. His prUt is throbbing and brushes against Garak's puffy neck ridges as the tailor moves, and bobs, and licks. Garak makes sure to get every last drop from Damar's chula. Now the blue in the center is so dark it looks black. Garak rubs it with the scales on his nose and drags his teeth gently across one of the raised edges. Damar's thighs begin to quiver.

“That's enough—take my prUt. All of it,” Damar says. His voice is low and gravelly with desire.

Garak does as he is told. He relaxes his throat and takes Damar all the way in. Damar strokes the tailor's smooth throat appreciatively and drags his nails along one slope of his swollen ridges. Garak hums. He sucks Damar's prUt until it is dripping with thick strands of spit and lubricant. 

“All fours,” Damar orders while Garak is licking his swollen lips. Damar drags one finger over the sensitive scales along one side of his genital slit. 

Garak gets down onto his forearms and pushes his ass up in the air on display for Damar. He gives it a seductive wiggle.

“Like thissss?” Garak hisses.

“Almost,” Damar says. He moves around to Garak's backside. He shoves Garak's tunic halfway up his back then grabs the waistband of his pants and pulls them down roughly.

“Careful! You'll tear the seams,” Garak warns.

Damar swats his bare asscheek with an open palm.

“I'll do what I want to your sssseams,” Damar hisses. He places another slap to the opposite cheek. Garak moans in pleasure.

“Is it to your liking?” Garak asks, shifting his hips.  
“You're getting wrinkles on your ass, tailor,” Damar says.

“Wrinkles! I should say not,” Garak's voice pitches higher in offense, “I'll have you know that I am quite aware that it's very smooth back there.”

“Nice and round,” Damar says, gripping a handful of flesh. 

Garak spreads his legs wider.

“If you like it so much then why don't you pay it some attention?” Garak urges.

“You're being a bit bossy, tailor,” Damar says. 

He slides his fingers between the cheeks and rubs. Garak presses back against his fingers that are teasing his opening. Damar spits generously on his fingers and continues rubbing and working his fingers inside. He rubs his prUt against the back of Garak's thigh while he works. 

When Garak is ready for him he pushes his prUt inside and when he is fully in the tailor clenches his muscles tightly around him. Damar reaches forward and pushes Garak's head down so that his cheek comes to rest on the floor and his tunic slides down to his armpits. Damar drags his nails down Garak's spine. It looks like the tailor has just shed not too long ago. The scales are fresh and some are still soft. Damar knows that those will be extra sensitive and picks one and rubs it while Garak shifts his hips. The tailor moans with pleasure. 

Damar begins to fuck him and Garak is pushing back against him growing quite noisy but suddenly the two men pause. Someone is banging on the door.

“It's occupied!” Damar shouts.

He licks his finger and drags it along one of Garak's sensitive scales.

“You've been in there for ages!” someone calls from behind the door in a muffled voice.

Garak wiggles against Damar seeming to want him to continue despite the person on the other side banging on the door again.

“They'll go away,” Damar says. He leans forward and bites down unexpectedly on one of Garak's shoulder ridges and the tailor cries out.

“Or they'll think someone's being murdered in here,” Garak says, pushing himself back to meet Damar's thrust.

“Come then and we'll finish before someone gets security to open the door,” Damar says.

The rut together a little longer before Garak splashes the dirty floor with his release. Damar pulls out of him and finishes himself off, jerking his swollen prUt until it splatters over his hand. 

“Lick it, tailor,” Damar says, holding his hand out to Garak like a treat. It's sticky and dripping but Garak cleans it and licks his lips.  
They dress quickly and exit the refresher without being seen. Whoever had been pounding on the door had gone. Before turning the corner to head back onto the Promenade Damar glances over his shoulder to find Jake Sisko at the door with a member of security. They'd finished and made their escape just in time. Damar chuckles at the thought that the son of the former commander of Deep Space nine having heard him fucking Garak.

“Garak, wait,” Damar says before the tailor can get away from him, “there's something else.”

“Oh? I assumed you were finished with me,” Garak says. He smooths a hand over the front of his rumpled tunic.

“That red dress in the window at your shop. Save it for me. I'll come get it this evening,” Damar says.

Garak gives him a polite nod. Damar wonders if the tailor is under the impression that they'll fuck again later. But this time Damar has no plans for that. There is no hidden meaning in his words. 

“A gift for a lady friend?” Garak is fishing. 

Damar purses his lips.

“Perhaps,” Damar isn't going to give him an answer and Garak seems to accept this.

Damar misses his wife. The dress is only a fantasy but until the war is over he will have to entertain himself with fantasy, and fucking Elim Garak on the floor of the refresher, or wherever he will be had. Damar combs his fingers through his messy hair then pauses. He wrinkles his nose then sniffs his fingers.

They smell like yamok sauce.


	7. Damar/dress, Damar/his wife (sort of) – Images

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mutual masterbation, toy, video, LAST CHAPTER.

Damar let the silky red material slide through his hands. Against it his fingers were rough, his claws ripped and jagged, from biting at them. He had been trying to cut down on his drinking but it wasn't going well. He was only chewing his claws down so far that he was drawing blood and making his fingers sore, and he felt ill, and even more agitated than usual. Even sex wasn't feeling as satisfying as it had been. He simply missed his wife and needed her.

He had known her since he'd been a boy but his eye had been to affixed to her older sister, Arel, to have noticed her. But the sister would have nothing do with him, snubbing him again, and again. He learned later that she was exclusively attracted to women and that might have had something to do with it. But he hadn't known that at the time he was leaving for his training at the military academy. He had promised to write but the responses he received had come from this girls younger sister; Mirem. Finally accepting that she wasn't going to have him he kept communications with the younger girl.

Certainly Damar had plenty of fumblings and explorations while training at the academy. There was a special basking rock some distance into the desert and it was known as a place for fooling around. Damar and various companions visited quite often. He thought of it as his rock, his place to deflower various classmates who were willing, and he wouldn't have been surprised if his scent still lingered on it now. He gave a small chuckle as he rubbed the fabric and thought over these things.

He had fallen in love with Mirem over their exchanged letters. He had told her that when he came home he was going to make her his bondmate. 

He recalled each leave from school that he had spent with her. They were both so young and she was different from the dalliances he had on his rock. Damar was considered very handsome—an ideal Cardassian—and at school many of his classmates fawned over him when given the chance and he hadn't found any unwilling to go to the rock with him. He wasn't challenged—but Mirem challenged him. She argued, she puffed her chest when he did, she pushed, she asserted her dominance just as hard. They were well matched and even after years of being bonded she had never bowed her head to him and lost her edge. If anything she had him wrapped around her finger. 

Damar put the dress aside and fiddled with his PADD. He was sending her a communications and was hopeful she would answer right away. He wanted to see her. At least an hour had passed while Damar paced restlessly, smoothed his hands over the dress, and obsessively visited the cabinet where he had kept his kanar. He regretted his attempt at sobriety and had just replicated a bottle (there was nothing worse than replicated kanar, but he was growing desperate) when his PADD made a small noise. He left the bottle aside immediately and snatched the device. He propped the PADD up on a table and turned on the feature that would allow his wife to see him. She was a video image across a vast distance but the picture was clear and he could hear her voice.

“Corat,” she said.

“Mirem,” he answered, “I've requested shoreleave but it hasn't been approved yet.”

“Well, you just tell Central Command that they had better be getting you home to me, or they'll regret it,” Mirem said, narrowing her eyes.

Damar chuckled.  


She was all angles on the screen: harsh, jagged, pointed. There were comments that with his looks he could have done better, and others more vulgar—that it must hurt to fuck her, or conversely that she must be wild in bed to have won him over, and all sorts of others. Such a person would only have chance to make a derogatory comment once. Damar would not tolerate it. Mirem was not the ideal of current Cardassian beauty which called for softer features rather than angular cheekbones, a severe jawline, and a nose so sharp and pointed it could be used as a weapon. Even the weight gain from her pregnancy hadn't softened her face, rounded her shoulders, or enlarged her small breasts. It had, however, padded her ass quite nicely. 

“You're thinking about my bottom,” Mirem said.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Damar admitted.

“I see exactly how the direction of this communication is going to go,” Mirem said, tilting her chin at him, “a one track mind, Corat. Shouldn't you ask how I've been? Or inquire about our son?”

Damar smirked at her.

“Of course. But I--”

“Of course,” Mirem said, “I want to fuck your prUt so hard, Corat. I want you to scream for me—and then... then we can talk when we're finished. Take off that terrible chest plate, Corat. Show me your chuen and how they color for me.”

Damar fumbled around removing his armor and clothing until he was naked before her. His chuen and neck ridges were flushed a dark blue and his prUt was already nudging his genital slit open. Mirem leaned forward and grinned at him. Her teeth weren't jagged like a Ferengi's and yet her smile somehow seemed just as sharp as the rest of her. She stood and turned her back to him and began to undress herself with a slow and teasing sway of her hips. She knew how much her bondmate enjoyed her backside.

Infact Damar was imagining how it would look in that red dress as he watched her disrobe. Cardassian clothing tended to be made of sturdy fabrics but the red dress was not Cardassian in design and the fabric was soft and clingy. He could imagine it clinging to the soft round spheres of her ass just perfectly.

Once she was nude she bounced on her feet a bit making her bottom bounce and jiggle. She gripped one of the cheeks firmly then gave it a slap. Damar growled and leaned forward, his nose almost touching the PADD screen.

He wanted to grab, and touch, and feel her grinding back against his aching genital slit until his prUt was fully erect and leaving wet smears of lubricant on her ass and the backs of her thighs. She could make him cum just like that if she wanted to: just by grinding against him or into his lap. She seemed to take a great joy in knowing that she could still arouse and undo him so easily. 

She turned around to face him and fiddled with her PADD for a moment. She was in the kitchen and pulled a thick toy out of a drawer. Mirem wrapped her mouth around it first and between sucks she snapped her teeth at Damar and licked her lips.

“If only this was you, Corat. Mm... do you want me as badly as I want you?” she slid the slicked toy between her legs and rubbed it against her genital slit.

“When I come home I'm not going to let you out of our bed for a week,” Damar growled.

“And I won't let you out for a month,” Mirem snapped her teeth again and Damar did too. She moaned as she rubbed her toy against her slit but then her eyes caught something off to the side. “Corat—what is that? That red thing?” she was using the toy to point, “some bedwarmer forget her dress?”

“This,” Damar lifted the dress and held it up for her, “it's a gift for you.”

“A good answer—but we've both agreed there's no harm in entertaining ourselves while we're apart. You should tell me about her,” Mirem said, “I wouldn't mind hearing about some of your partners. I have nothing of interest to report on my side. Your cousin Enrek is abysmal in bed, and Mr. Teket at the fish market says I'd injure him so he won't give in to my advances,” she chuckled.

“What about Gilana?” Damar asked.

“She's says it wouldn't do for us to fuck since she's Domek's teacher now,” Mirem rolled her eyes.

“What a prude,” Damar said. He licked his lips as he watched Mirem continue to slide the toy against her ajan. He remembered several occasions when he'd watched Mirem and Gilana fuck each other with that toy and others. 

“Yes, I think so too,” Mirem said, “but enough—you tell me what you would do to me if I wore that dress for you, Corat,” Mirem hissed. Damar's neck ridges swelled even fuller.

Mirem hoisted herself onto the counter and spread her legs wide. 

“It wouldn't last long,” Damar said, “I'd tear it right off of you, I think. But I keep thinking about how great your ass would look in it—and red would suit you.”

Mirem was working her toy into her ajan. Damar gripped his aching prUt and gave it a firm tug.

“Yessss,” Mirem hissed as she worked her large toy all the way in, her ajan spreading to accommodate its size, “ooh—Corat—I wish this was your prUt inside of me. I want you in my ajan so badly! Please—Corat...” she panted, “stroke your prUt for me. Stroke it with that dress and come on it for me.”

Damar wrapped the silky fabric around his prUt and grunted. He hadn't imagined how good that would feel. He stroked himself as he watched his wife fuck herself with her toy and scream his name. When her hand grew tired she affixed the toy to the countertop and rode it like a wild thing, her black her hair tangled in her hands, her slender neckridges swollen fat and flushed so dark the blue looked black. She growled and writhed and snapped her teeth as she fucked herself hard and Damar imagined it was his prUt she was riding like a beast and with a roar and a shudder that rocked his body he came into the dress. Mirem screamed his name and came too. Her chest was heaving and her body trembling with the force of her orgasm. Half of her face was obscured by her hair. She had left gouges from her claws in the countertop. Damar would have to buff them out when he was home again—or maybe he'd just leave them. 

Mirem shuddered and shivered and Damar tossed the ruined dress onto the floor. She pulled herself off of her toy. Her thighs were glistening and her fluids were dripping off the countertop and onto the floor.

“It's... too bad... you're not here, my love, Corat,” she said between breaths, “or I would push you down and step on your back while you lick my juice from the floor.”

Damar groaned. His prUt was oversensitive directly after orgasm but even still it was pushing his slit open again at her words and the scene it painted in his mind.

“And I would lick them from your greedy ajan too,” he said.

Mirem gave a little whine and squeezed her thighs together.

“I miss you, Corat,” she whispered. She held her palm up and open against the screen. Damar pressed his palm to hers.

“And I miss you, Mirem. I will see you soon,” he said.

“Yes, you will, or I will march on Central Command and beat someone in the head with this,” she said, yanking the toy free from the counter top and giving it a good wag.

Damar chuckled.

“I believe you,” he said.

He was going to talk to her more, and to ask about their son, Damek. But his comm badge chirped. Damar said a quick goodbye and shut his PADD off.

Later that night when he was back in his quarters he pulled up the saved video of his wife masterbating and came again, and again, onto the dress. Eventually it became too frustrating to continue. He wanted her ajan not a used piece of material. Damar replicated a bottle kanar and drank it all, and then another, until he couldn't swallow another drop. His request for shoreleave had been denied, he was sexually frustrated, lonely, and he'd gone too long without a drink. Now he just wanted the kanar to blot everything out for awhile because he was feeling very sorry for himself. 

It hit him so hard he had to crawl to his bed. That was where Weyoun found Damar in the morning, dead to the worlds, snoring away with an empty bottle of kanar in one hand, and a red dress flung down at the end of the bed. When he was awoken Damar gave a shout of surprise and sat up quickly, his eyes wide, his hair a mess. 

When Weyoun had left Damar stumbled out of bed in search of more kanar. He felt like death. He thought he should have tried to have Weyoun suck his prUt before the irritating Vorta had gone, but no. He couldn't visit Garak, or Dukat, both were gone—Dukat was parading as a Bajoran. It didn't matter anyway. None of them could satisfy him, not really, not the way he needed. He lurched back towards his bed after hating himself in the mirror, turning away, and downing a mouthful of kanar. He decided he wasn't going to bed anyone until he was home again and he and his wife could have each other. Damar plucked the soiled red dress from his sheets. It didn't matter who he had had in his bed, or anywhere else; they were no more than used pieces of material too.


End file.
